


The Other Inquisitor

by KaerWrites



Series: Redcliff Amulet [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Multiple/Alternate Realities, time travel-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:37:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 29,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3506843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaerWrites/pseuds/KaerWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A messy disagreement with the Inquisitor results in Dorian waking up in an alternate timeline, where differences in leadership have certainly had a surprising impact on his own personal story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amulet

A humorless laugh played charming accompaniment to the realization that one final sweep of the room provided – namely, that once he turned his back and walked away there would be absolutely nothing to show for the fact that one Dorian Pavus had ever leant his presence to so foolhardy an endeavor as the Inquisition.

It would hardly be the first time the young mage had made the mistake of throwing his hopes against a brick wall, but he would be remiss if he didn’t admit that this instance certainly stung the most – at least in recent memory. His opportunity to do the right thing, to prove that he was more than a deviant and a mistake, to show that _his_ Tevinter was a land of more than blood magic, slavers, and monsters – that there _were_ good people there and they _would_ fight, if given half a chance – and it was all to be wasted on the blind, destructive pride of this so-called Inquisitor. Rellana Lavellan held in her hands the opportunity for real and lasting change. She had the power, the influence, the resources – and she was blind to everything but the tantalizing prospect of her own growing glory.

Dorian’s jaw ached nearly as much as his pride. For such a delicate little Dalish, the Inquisitor had a mean right hook.

The warning signs of the problems with Rellana had been obvious from the start but Dorian, fool that he was, had tried anyway. Tried, even after she abandoned him to his fate at Redcliff. Tried, even after her cruelty, her glory mongering, and a slew of mistakes that left her Inquisition looking, at best, like a pack of dumb brutes. Dorian had stayed, knowing he could lose his very life for the cause of a woman he hated, just so that the world would know _someone_ from Tevinter was willing to stand against Corypheus. For a time Dorian had fully believed the sacrifice would prove worth it.

Until the day he had decided to attempt, one last time, to reason with Rellana, to open her eyes and help her see what it was she was creating. Good soldiers were leaving her ranks every day, replaced by monsters who only saw opportunity to rape and pillage and murder. Half of her allies had left her, and her Commander, while too duty-bound to desert, was killing himself, slowly, with misery.

Rellana had not thanked him for his advice. Dorian’s face would bear the bruise for days.

At any rate, Dorian was done. The Inquisition could face Corypheus without him, and they could all burn for all he cared. Rellana would seek to make herself a god; Dorian failed to see how her victory could possibly be any better an outcome.

Though he owned piteously little in the way of personal artifacts these days, Dorian’s pack felt heavy as he lifted it to his shoulder. It was more than the pride-aching prospect of the walk of shame to come – exiting Skyhold under the uncaring eyes of a slew of strangers who had never once made the attempt to see him as anything more than the evil Vint staining their glorious Inquisition. It was the weight of knowledge he felt, knowledge of the abyss. His only path now was to return home, try to prepare his people for the inevitability of the chaos to come. Without power of connections the quest was doomed to failure before it had the chance to begin, but Dorian knew he would see it through anyway. He was out of options.

“Look on the bright side, Dorian,” he told himself with a glorious excess of forced cheer. “Likely you’ll meet an assassin’s dagger long before things get well and truly fucked.”

Skyhold’s courtyard was crowded, busy with carts and soldiers and servants unloading a shipment from the Hinterlands. Rellana hadn’t bothered to lift a finger to help her fellow mages, but as soon as things died down out there she had certainly jumped on sending her scavengers to Redcliff.

Outside, the cold hit Dorian like a slap in the face, but he refused to pull his cloak more tightly around himself as he made his way down the stairs. At least the weather back home would be pleasant.

It wasn’t hard to spot Rellana down below, surrounded by servants clothed in that ridiculous livery she had insisted upon. She was picking through the chests and crates, trying on furs and jewelry before a great, ornate, full-length mirror two servants struggled to hold up for her.

“Maker’s balls, she’s wearing a crown now?” Dorian muttered.

Someone had indeed found the Inquisitor a crown – a towering, elaborate gold wirework of vines that dripped with emeralds cut to resemble leaves. The farcical adornment only added to Inquisitor Rellana’s strong resemblance to an elegant glass doll. Even Dorian had to admit that she was a stunningly pretty little Dalish, with a slender white neck and thick black hair. Expertly applied makeup made her already-large eyes even larger in her youthful face. She had turned her back entirely on her clan and her gods and her simple upbringing; no one had seen her in anything but silks and jewels since Haven.

“What a ridiculously simple little trinket this is!” Dorian heard her laugh as he drew near. Her dainty white hands drew a rather plain amulet on a long chain from a nearby chest.

Her servants were, as ever, quick with their praise. “Oh, mistress Inquisitor, even such a simple bauble looks exquisite in your care!” they fawned.

Their address bore some mixture of boredom and fear, which Rellana utterly failed to notice. She held the amulet to her chest, and tilted her head this way and that to observe its effect in the mirror. “Oh, it _is_ an ugly little thing!” she laughed.

Dorian passed by without so much as a nod of acknowledgement, his chin high and his shoulders back – he’d be damned if he’d be said to have skulked away like the embarrassment of the Inquisition.

Rellana’s voice could go from soft and girlish to brittle and hard in the blink of an eye. Dorian had nearly reached the gates when that voice called out, like the crack of a whip, shattering the busy peace of the courtyard and freezing every living being momentarily in place.

“Detain that mage,” Rellana ordered.

The soldiers at the gate hesitated a moment before they moved to block his way, crossing their spears before him. Two more approached from either side, their hands hesitating above the hilts of their swords. Dorian wondered if their reticence was due to fear of the evil mage of if they truly were questioning their darling Inquisitor’s orders. Ultimately, he decided it was best _not_ to question life’s little mercies.

Rellana’s back was to him as he turned to face her, but she was watching him through the reflection in the mirror.

“Darling,” Dorian said. “Did we forget our tearful goodbyes? A shame, that. I know you are ever fond of dramatics. I’m certain it’s a marvelous send-off you have planned, but I’m afraid I simply haven’t the time.”

She looked much less pretty when she sneered, lifting her lip like a rabid animal before she spun to face him.

“You’re really doing it, then?” she demanded. “Abandoning the Inquisition like a coward? Running away because your feelings were hurt?”

“Ah, but we discussed this, my sweet, and you were rather… _loquacious_ concerning your feelings on the matter.” Dorian gingerly touched a finger to his bruised jaw. “At any rate, the unfortunate fact remains that your presence, your decisions, your very face makes me positively vomitus.”

Her face flashed scarlet in rage and she threw her shoulders back, chin lifting in defiance. “You would rather see me in chains, I presume?” she was still holding the amulet, her knuckles white around it.

Dorian pressed a hand to his heart, offering a formal bow. “My detestable little dewdrop, it is my preference not to see you at all,” he said. Dorian began tp turn back to the gate. He was done with being made a spectacle of, done with wary glances and solitude and rebuffed peace offerings. The eyes of all those in the courtyard pierced him like dozens of tiny knives, colder and sharper than the icy sheet of snow that had begun to fall. He was done. He wanted gone.

Rellana, however, had other plans.

“Seize him,” she ordered. “Search his bag.”

“Oh, for the love of – !” Dorian began to turn, and then the guards were on him. The struggle was brief and violent. A fist ground its way into Dorian’s gut and his bag and staff were wrestled from his hands. Another fist connected with his cheek and he went down. There wasn’t time for spells or defense; such would not have been advisable in any case, giving the guards excuse to do worse. Dorian found himself forced to his knees in the snow, a guard on either side, as two others ripped through the contents of his bag and the courtyard watched on, silent and frozen.

Dorian’s head was spinning, his body quivering with an unpleasant combination of pain and rage and humiliation. Rellana wore a look of triumph, of smug satisfaction and pleasure. She smiled as she approached, stretching out a slippered toe to grind some of his belongings into the ground.

“Documents, Inquisitor,” one of the soldiers said, offering her a thick sheaf pulled from Dorian’s bag.

Rellana raised a brow. “Planning to sell Inquisition secrets to Tevinter, are we?”

“Those are travel documents!”

“A convenient excuse.”

“Read them, then, if you have brains enough in your head to understand!”

Her eyes, so much like bright green glass, flared in fury or triumph or simple pleasure, Dorian could not be sure.

“Take him into custody,” she ordered her guards.

“Inquisitor!” the commotion had drawn Cullen down from his office. He approached at a run at first, then slowed as he drew near, like a man coming upon a dangerous snake. He looked, unsure, from Dorian to the Inquisitor, then back again, hand hovering over the hilt of his sword. “Release that man,” he told the guards.

“Do no such thing!” Rellena ordered, but Dorian felt the pressure ease from his shoulders.

Cullen stepped forward to help him to his feet.

“This man is a Tevinter spy, Commander,” Rellana proclaimed, pointing dramatically. She still held the amulet she’d been playing with, and it swayed with the movement, momentarily and incomprehensibly catching Dorian’s attention. “Execute him!”

The soldiers mulled from foot to foot. Shifting, hesitating. It was Cullen they looked to for confirmation of the order. Cullen who gave a shake of his head and a sharp motion to indicate they should stand down.

“Inquisitor,” he said, releasing Dorian once he was certain he was stable and approaching Rellana slowly, palms up and empty. “I must recommend we all go inside and examine the evidence before proceeding with this kind of decision,” he advised. A slight edge of tired irritation edged his tone like a razor blade. “We don’t want it said the Inquisition executes innocent men without a trial.”

“He’s never been innocent a day in his life,” Rellana spat.

“Release him into my custody,” Cullen said. “I will personally see to it he does not disappear before facing your judgment.” Cullen kept his voice calm, if hard, and for a moment Dorian felt something like hope. They didn’t know one another very well, but Rellana’s advisors were too good to –

“I judge him now!” Rellana said. “Under my authority as Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, chosen by the _Maker_ , I find this man guilty of treason and I order his execution. Now.”

A few scattered gasps were all that broke the silence of the watching courtyard. The soldiers, unsure, didn’t move. Cullen took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders.

“My men,” he said coldly, “Will not.”

“Inquisitor,” Dorian began, but found he hadn’t a clue as to how to proceed. Threats of execution were a mite bit too serious a matter for a glib tongue. His throat had gone utterly dry. His eyes dropped and, incongruously, he found his attention fixed on the amulet again. He realized with a sense of absurdity bordering on hysterical that against all odds he _recognized_ it, though it had been many years since he’d last laid eyes on he and Alexius’s pet project. What - ?

“If you and your men are so incompetent, commander, I’ll see to the task, myself!” Rellana cried, flinging out her arm.

Dorian didn’t see what kind of spell it was she threw his way. The amulet began to glow green, then flared a bright, blinding white. Cullen shouted. Dorian felt a flash of pain.

And then, for a long time, there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an extremely self indulgent idea that would not leave me alone. I have not finished writing the entire thing yet, but if all goes according to plan it will be somewhat long. My appreciation to anyone who chooses to ride out this silly plot with me.


	2. Morning

Awareness trickled slowly into Dorian’s consciousness, pinpricks of light gathering, pooling behind his eyelids. He began to wake to sensation: the press of fine sheets against his cheek. Warmth. Dawn gently growing behind a large set of windows that bore the insignia of the Inquisition in stained glass.

His head pounded dully as he blinked at the colorful display, and a sick feeling began to settle deep within his belly, a feeling of wrongness. This was neither a grave nor a prison cell.

Behind him, someone shifted on the mattress, and for a brief, illogical, and utterly strange moment, Dorian could not place himself. He wondered wildly if the past few years had been a dream – perhaps he was really still in Minrathous and had simply tarried too long at the side of one of the charming but ultimately meaningless flings he had entertained himself with while there. Perhaps the musician with the long, talented fingers, or the politician with the wicked mouth, or even the poet with the huge –

Why was his head so damned fuzzy? That was the real question.

The eye of the Inquisition continued to stare down at him from the relief on the window, and he knew his attempts to explain all this away had failed. The Inquisition had not existed while he had been in Minrathous.

A long, brown arm slid slowly around Dorian’s chest, and fingers – elegant, artistic, but calloused – found and intertwined with Dorian’s own.

“What are you doing all the way over there?” a sleepy and unfamiliar voice asked with a small laugh. He felt kisses against the back of his neck, the brush of hair against his shoulder. The unfamiliar hand squeezed his own, then slid up his arm, across his chest, and began to trail slowly down his abdomen.

Dorian realized that he was quite thoroughly nude.

He caught the hand as it ventured dangerously lower, and he rolled onto his back to face this… _affectionate_ stranger. He was, understandably, quite confused, his sharp, scholarly mind struggling to put together the pieces of this strange situation.

He didn’t know the face that broke into such a warm, welcoming smile on meeting his eyes.

It was a Dalish lad, attractive as most elves tended to be, and his shoulder-length hair, dark brown, was such a rats’ nest from sleep that it might have been amusing under different circumstances.

“You stayed all night this time,” the lad said, pleased.

“It…appears I did?” Dorian found himself answering. Reach as he might, his mind could not connect the events which must have led him here. He remembered the courtyard, Rellana – and then – then what?

“It wasn’t so bad, was it?” the lad asked, teasing him quietly.

“…no?” Dorian hazarded, thoughts a frantic whirlwind.

The lad’s smile grew. He really was quite fetching, even with the laughable state of his hair, and – _Dorian Pavus, this is_ not _the time for –_

The lad moved, throwing a leg across Dorian to straddle his hips. He was nude and not at all ashamed of it, which was, really, no help at all for Dorian’s distracted mind. His body was lithe and athletic and quite – ah – _acceptable_. Yes.

“I told you, didn’t I?” the lad asked, still smiling, even as he leaned across Dorian to press his lips to the mage’s. Dorian lifted his hands to grasp his arms, but didn’t pull him away as intended, despite the fact that this really wasn’t helping his situation at all. _The courtyard. Rellana._

The Dalish boy smiled even as they kissed. He tasted of wilderness and wild, sun and wind and warmth.

 _No. The courtyard. Rellana._ His fuzzy mind could barely hold on to the thought, particularly not with such distracting temptation vying for his attention.

“Isn’t this nicer than waiting until breakfast to say good morning?” the Dalish teased softly, his hips rolling against Dorian’s, his smiling lips ghosting across his throat.

“Good morning,” Dorian panted, fisting a hand in that tangle of hair and pulling his mouth back to his own.

 _The courtya – Rellan - but_ what intoxicating lips this stranger had. It had been too long since Dorian had taken pleasure in another, and he had never kissed an elf before. It seemed only right to continue. In the interest of education.

The lad’s hands cupped Dorian’s face, his hips rolling with obvious intent as the kiss deepened, losing its previous sweetness in favor of hunger. Dorian’s hands slid down over the lad’s back and hips to grasp at what was, in fact, an understandably distracting backside, and the elf gave a most satisfying little groan of approval.

“Inquisitor!” a voice called.

It was like a bucket of ice had been dumped over the both of them. The lad jerked upwards, he and Dorian simply staring at one another for a moment, their breathing heavy, their eyes mutually dark with unfulfilled passion.

“Not _again_ ,” the lad murmured.

Dorian heard footsteps pounding on the staircase, hurrying, and as his passion began to cool, Dorian found he felt frozen, stupid, humiliated. _The courtyard. Rellena_. His very life in danger, and here he was, indulging in this…in…

He couldn’t tear his eyes from the elven lad. Was this simply a distraction? Throw a lovely boy at Dorian, keep him busy until – until what? Whatever spell Rellena had thrown had knocked him quite senseless. They could have done anything with him they’d wanted.

The Dalish turned as the sound of footsteps neared the top of the stairs. “Cullen,” he said. “Don’t - !”

But he was too late. A blonde head crested over the top of the stairs, and Cullen Rutherford burst unceremoniously into the room. The commander made it a full two running steps in before he stopped as suddenly as if he’s been hit by a brick wall, his eyes large and round as he stared at the two of them there in the bed, the Dalish lad straddling Dorian, nude, and still somewhat aroused, Dorian’s hands still, the mage realized with a guilty jolt, plastered to his derriere. He quickly removed them, but that hardly seemed to help matters at all.

Cullen’s mouth worked silently for a moment, then his face grew to be such a violent and disconcerting shade of red that it was nearly purple. He looked away so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t snap his own neck.

“My apologies your worship,” panted the guard who had followed just on the commander’s heels. “I tried to warn him…”

The Dalish lad sighed. The palm of one of his hands bore an unmistakable, distinctive green mark as he drew it away from Dorian’s face, and the mage could only stare. _Inquisitor_ , Cullen had said.

“It’s fine, Maxwell,” the lad said, climbing from the bed – from Dorian – and moving to take a simple black dressing robe from the back of an arm chair. He seemed utterly casual in his nudity, unconcerned, and it was clear he was covering himself only for the sake of his guests. “You may return to your post.”

Maxwell looked between his commander and the Dalish lad, hesitating a moment before he nodded and headed back down the stairs. Dorian realized where he was, though he had never before seen this room with his own eyes. The Inquisitor’s tower.

“Now,” the Dalish said, turning his attention to Cullen. His eyes were blue, but when the light hit them just right they became nearly purple. “Cullen, what can I do for you? An emergency, I take it?” his lips twitched as he tied his robe closed with a final tug.

“R-report,” the commander stammered, holding out a letter in his direction without ever once looking his way. “The report from – you said – as soon as it came in, you know. I am very sorry. I didn’t realize you would, ah, that is… _Maker_ , I really don’t know why this keeps happening.”

“Don’t concern yourself,” the lad said, stepping forward to take the letter and opening it, eyes skimming the words. “Oh, this. Yes.”

“We need your decision. The troops – they’ll need to move out immediately. If that’s what you, ah, require.”

The lad nodded, tucking the envelope in his belt sash then reaching up to tie back the mess of his hair. “I’ll be right down,” he promised, and looked to Dorian as Cullen gratefully fled. His smile was soft and regretful. He was even more stunning with his hair pulled back to expose the fine features of his face. “I’m sorry, Dorian,” he said. “I suppose we will have to pick up later. I’ll see you at breakfast? Don’t let them eat all the bacon this time, even if I’m late.” He swept down, kissing Dorian quickly, before the mage could respond, and then he headed for the stairs.

As soon as he was gone, Dorian pushed back the sheets and leapt from the bed.

There was certainly a story to be told here, but the pieces were too confusing to place together. He found his clothing scattered across the floor, as if it had been removed in a rush. An empty bottle of wine and two glasses rested on an end table by the couch, with half a dozen books stacked nearby. A half-full vial of oil sat, uncapped, on a nightstand by the bed.

Dorian dressed himself, and tried not to picture what kind of night could have proceeded this – this strange morning. The madness of the thought trying to wriggle its way into his brain was too impossible, too fantastic to consider. He moved to the desk, looking through the reports and letters scattered there, finding no trace of Rellana’s name, her elaborate seal, her handwriting.

_The courtyard. Rellana._

_Alexius’s amulet._

Dorian swallowed hard and lowered himself into the desk chair. As he let his eyes roam the room, he found odd traces of himself. Dancing scarves thrown over a dressing screen. A landscape by his favorite painter. He even found a pot of his hair oils in one of the desk drawers. Little touches of himself, everywhere. It was not his room, but – but it seemed he came here often.

It was madness, what he was thinking.

Dorian checked himself in the mirror near the wardrobe. He made certain every buckle was fastened, every hair in place. And then, ignoring a stirring of nerves, he headed for the stairs.

He found the great hall slowly stirring for the day’s activity, just like any normal day. The tables were already set, a few early risers already trickling in as the servants put out platters of food and pitchers of coffee and juice. Dorian had always made it a habit to come down early, fill a plate, and carry it up to the library, taking his meals in silence and solitude. He’d grown used to the wary looks the servants gave him, the evil Vint in their midst. He had told himself it didn’t matter.

But now he was greeted. By name. Servants he barely recognized smiled at him, said ‘good morning’ as he passed.

“Over here, Sparkler, I’ve been waiting for you. Can’t wait to hear every detail.”

Dorian was surprised when Varric waved him over to the table where the Inquisitor usually sat. Dorian was used to seeing the table empty but for Rellana’s single, ornate dining chair – a little taller than every other chair in the hall. But here, the table was set for ten, and every chair stood equal. Varric and Solas were the only ones currently occupying the space, though the latter seemed absorbed in some sort of scroll and did not look up.

“Every detail of what?” Dorian asked, drawing near the table, and, after Varric kicked out the seat next to him, taking the offered chair. He took a chance. “Not the sordid details of the night’s escapades, I hope.” If he and the dwarf had never been exactly close, at the very least they had not been enemies. Dorian had considered him a decent sort, and they had maintained a polite distance.

Now, though, the feel seemed downright friendly as Varric laughed, drawing a slow, less than pleased look from Solas over the top of his scroll, but no comment. Varric hardly seemed to notice.

“That’s not breakfast talk,” the dwarf said, “But if you’re the kind of man who kisses and tells, you can do the telling part later over Wicked Grace, I’d love to take your money along with your dirty secrets. I was talking about Curly. He came down those stairs like he was being chased by rutting nugs in heat,” he laughed. “How much did he see?”

Dorian felt very odd, filling his plate from one of the platters, Varric nudging him with his elbow. If he hadn’t known better, he would think he was dreaming this madness.

“I am certain the dear commander would insist he saw nothing at all,” he answered after a moment.

“Is that the third or fourth time he’s walked in on the two of you? Poor guy’s gonna injure himself with all that blushing. And you really thought you’d keep your torrid affair quiet! Worst kept secret of the Inquisition!”

Dorian managed a smile. “I suppose you can’t fault us for trying, at least.”

The dwarf laughed again, slapping his thigh. Solas looked up again, and this time seemed to do a brief double take, frowning a little at Dorian. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and though he seemed to return to his scroll, it was questionable how much attention he was paying to it.

“Dandelion and I have a bet going on how much he actually sees,” Varric confessed, and Dorian did his best to hide his surprise. Sera was neither the first nor the last companion who Rellena had driven out of the Inquisition, but she had been the loudest about it.

_The courtyard. Rellena. Alexius’s amulet._

“Is – is that so?” he asked.

The dwarf eyed him for a moment, mirth sliding slowly away. “Hey, everything all right with you? We can stop if it touches some weird nerve or something.”

Dorian poured himself some coffee purely as an excuse not to look at him. “I am the very picture of health,” he stated. “The handsome, charming, irresistible picture.”

“You’re acting off,” Varric said bluntly. “Jumpy. Andraste’s tits, Curly didn’t walk in on a fight or something, did he?”

“The Inquisitor and I seemed to have left off on very… _affectionate_ …terms, trust me.” _Inquisitor_. _Damn_.

“Never mind – I don’t want the details. Whatever goes in the book, I’ll just pull out of my little furry ass.”

“Now there is an image I do not want to suffer while eating breakfast,” Cassandra said, giving the dwarf a glare as she pulled out a chair across from them. Dorian found himself staring for a moment. Though she hadn’t gone so far as to leave, the Cassandra he knew did not, by choice, interact with most of the group.

“You know I’m your favorite,” Varric said, batting his lashes and passing a plate of eggs.

“Ugh,” was the eloquent response.

“I’ve some research to do,” Dorian decided, rising with his plate and his coffee.

“Something I said?” he heard Varric ask.

Solas watched him go in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long. Thank you so much, everyone, for reading!


	3. Library

The familiar silence of Skyhold’s library was a comforting solace, a balm to nerves that were so quickly threatening to fray. Dorian skimmed his fingertips across supple leather spines, took a slow, deep inhalation of the familiar scents of dust and paper, and allowed his racing thoughts to slow and settle.

Dorian’s penchant for bouts of radical idealism did not make him any less an intelligent or practical man. The things he found himself considering were complete and utter madness – but could he honestly say anything else made one lick of sense? If this was some fever dream, it was quite a damned good one. It didn’t _feel_ like the Fade. Perhaps he _was_ locked away in a cell under Skyhold, happily babbling away in his delusions. Wouldn’t that be _delightful_.

But the fact of the matter was, this _felt_ real.

The Dalish boy – his lips had _tasted_ real.

Dorian opened his eyes and frowned at the row of books before him. If he let his thoughts linger on this place’s marvelous little Inquisitor, he’d never figure this out. It was surely a heartening sign for Dorian’s theory that the titles of the books didn’t leap about, dancing and shifting and changing as they would were he in the Fade. But what _didn’t_ help was the face that the titles before him were all _wrong_.

Dorian’s head hurt.

Skyhold’s fantastic library had always been the one singular boon to Dorian’s life there. The mysterious, ancient fortress had held tomes long thought lost to scholars – tomes any self-respecting magister would gladly sacrifice his own grandchildren for if it meant the mere opportunity to flip through them – and all perfectly preserved by the place’s strange magic. Dorian had never in his life seen such a collection of rare books – and that had been _before_ Leliana’s network had begun working to bring more in.

He’d found his favorite nook in the library to be virtually unchanged from the place he was accustomed to in the real world, with only minimal differences. Here, his notes had been left out, rather than secreted away to keep them from prying eyes. The space felt more claimed – more comfortable, more cluttered – but overall the differences were subtle. The Dorian who belonged in this world must not have been so very different, wherever he was now.

Dorian paused on that thought, frown deepening, then shook his head. One problem at a time.

The books Dorian needed appeared to be missing.

“Did you get tired of waiting for me, then?”

Dorian just barely managed to avoid jumping at the question. He turned to find the Dalish lad – the Inquisitor, he reminded himself – standing nearby, his shoulder propped against a bookcase and his arms crossed against his slender chest. He had finally found some clothing, which truly was a shame. Dressed in soft, simple leathers, he certainly didn’t look much like _The Inquisitor_ to Dorian. Compared with Rellana’s lavish silks and flashy jewels – and, Maker, that _crown_ – it would have been easier to mistake the lad for a member of the household staff.

“I’m sorry – the meeting went a little longer than I expected,” the Inquisitor said. Dorian really needed to prioritize learning his name – particularly as if seemed they were on rather intimate terms. Could get awkward, that. “Leliana wanted to – well, no. Nevermind. I’m not sure I would know where to even begin trying to explain it,” he chuckled. “We’re all set to leave in a few days. That’s the part that matters.”

“We?” Dorian asked. It was no easy matter, pulling his attention from his examination of the snug fit of the Inquisitor’s breeches. Oh, but he _was_ distracting. “I am to come along, then?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind,” alarm flashed momentarily through the lad’s rather remarkable eyes. “I would be utterly lost – I wouldn’t dream of going without you.”

It took more effort than it should have to cover his surprise. “Well – naturally,” Dorian said. Rellana had rarely asked him to accompany her excursions out of Skyhold, even when his talents would have proven most useful. She had only invited him, in fact, when she’d either had limited options or when she’d been certain they were going somewhere truly miserable. “I’m sure you would cry yourself into your pillow every night. I’m sure _I_ would, if forced from my company.”

He turned his attention back to the books, but found himself unable to focus on a single one of them. When the Inquisitor gave a soft laugh, Dorian had the most disconcerting feeling that the lad could see through him utterly.

“It would be quite a sight if I went traipsing around the Winter Palace without any kind of guidance,” the lad said. Dorian could hear him passing behind him, wandering toward the chair and the window. When he glanced his way, it was to find him inspecting Dorian’s untouched and now terribly cold plate of breakfast foods with a frown. “Vivienne’s been advising me, and you know I’ve been reading every book on Orlesian culture I’ve been able to get my hands on – but I’ll feel much better knowing you’re there.”

“Not to mention how utterly stunning I’ll look on your arm,” Dorian added. It was good to know he seemed to be in the same _timeline_ , at least. Rellana’s deliveries from Redcliff, her stupid crown, had all been in anticipation for the coming ball. As far as Dorian was aware, however, she hadn’t sought advice from any of her followers. Dorian certainly hadn’t anticipated being expected to attend.

“There is that, too,” the Inquisitor said warmly. When Dorian glanced his way again he was poking at the soggy mess of egg and toast with his finger. The lad looked up, catching Dorian’s eye. “What are you studying now?” he asked.

“What?”

“We talked about this, Dorian. I love how caught up you get, but you can’t forget to eat. You promised.”

“I – ah – got distracted,” Dorian said. It was true.

The Inquisitor’s expression was unreadable. “So I gather,” he said.

“So many questions – isn’t it enough simply to be here, basking in my glory?” Dorian asked.

“That glory won’t be nearly so glorious if you forget to eat. I’ve half a mind to send for something and spoon feed you myself,” the Inquisitor said, and Dorian wasn’t certain if he was teasing or was truly miffed. The lad sat himself in the windowsill and propped his feet against the armrest of the chair and waited, those remarkable eyes patient, thoughtful – and focused solely on Dorian.

“Oh, all right,” the mage snapped, thinking quickly. There was hardly harm in a touch of the truth – perhaps the lad would even be able to help. “Do you know where the books on time magic have run off to? There weren’t many to begin with – _Intrinsic Theories on the Fade in Realities Diverse and Varied_ was one I remember in particular.” Four volumes of dry drivel that said absolutely nothing, he’d once thought, but it was worth a shot now. “ _Force Magic and Time?_ Or _A Compendium of Interval Phase Shifting Theory? Timey-Wimey Reality Rhythms?”_ He stopped as he realized the Inquisitor was giving him the oddest look.

“Are you sure you’re feeling well, Dorian?”

“Look, I know it’s a ridiculous fanciful waste of time, those theories,” and nothing worked. Nothing had ever worked. But Rellana – _what had she done_?

“It’s not a waste of time,” the Inquisitor said, “But we shipped all those books to Alexius to aid his research. You helped pack them.”

 _Alexius is alive_? Dorian just barely managed to bite back blurting the question out loud. As it was, his shock and confusion surely registered on his face, as the Inquisitor’s own expression filled with concern.

A dozen questions he could never ask pelted at Dorian. He had been too late, and the Venatori had killed Alexius once he lost his usefulness. Except here, Dorian’s former mentor was not only alive and well, but working under the Inquisition? How could this place be so very different? What had changed here?

The Inquisitor had risen, and Dorian nearly drew back as he approached him – but the lad merely pressed the back of his hand to the mage’s cheek, frowning softly. It was an odd gesture, rather stunning in its simple intimacy, and Dorian found himself somewhat frozen, uncharacteristically unsure of how to respond.

“You don’t feel as if you have a fever,” the Inquisitor mused, “But – maybe you should go back to bed for a few hours. There’s no shame in it. We’re all pretty exhausted, after Crestwood…and you didn’t get much sleep last night. Sorry.”

Dorian reached up to pull his hand from his face, but instead of simply letting it drop, the Inquisitor intertwined their fingers and shifted a little closer to him. Their bodies were very nearly brushing, their clasped hands hidden between them from possible onlookers.

What was truly baffling was the fact that there was no lust in the lad’s eyes, no hunger, no heat. He was concerned. As if he cared. As if – as if Dorian’s welfare meant something to the lad.

It took Dorian a moment to find his voice, much less remember what they’d been talking about.

“I – ah, you may be right,” Dorian said. “I probably am tired.”

“You shouldn’t push yourself so hard, Dorian.”

With effort, Dorian managed a smile. “Can’t leave all the burden on your shoulders, can we?” he asked.

The Inquisitor gave a soft, humorless smile. “Isn’t that what I’m here for?” he asked. He gave Dorian’s hand a squeeze, and he could feel the heat of his mark against his palm. “Promise me you’ll get some rest – and some food. Give me one less thing to worry about, all right?”

“Surely the almighty Inquisitor has more important things to worry about than this evil Vint,” Dorian said lightly.

“There’s nothing more important to me than ‘this evil Vint’,” the Inquisitor answered. “Promise me, Dorian. I _need_ you.”

He had to look away. It was too confusing, too overwhelming. He could feel the lad’s gaze, patient, unwavering, even as he turned his attention to vigorously pretending to examine the books.

The Inquisitor pressed his hand again. “ _Dorian_.”

“Oh, all right,” he huffed, refusing to look at him, feeling so distinctly overwhelmed he hardly knew what he was saying. Each word was a struggle. “If you’re going to be so silly about it, I suppose I have no choice.”

“Thank you,” the Inquisitor sighed, and sounded distinctly relieved. Dorian jerked in surprise when the lad pressed close, lips brushing his cheek. “Will I see you tonight?”

“I – can probably arrange to come by. If you like.”

“Tonight, then,” the Inquisitor said. He slipped so soundlessly away that it took Dorian a moment to realize he was gone. The warmth of his slender body seemed to linger at Dorian’s side.

The lad could certainly get his heart rate up, that much was certain. It was not so surprising, then, that the Dorian of this world would have grown close to him. _How_ close was a question Dorian wasn’t entirely sure he was comfortable probing. Sex was one thing, but this encounter certainly left him wondering, irrational as he knew it was, if there were something more to it. To them.

He shook his head, dismissing the ridiculous thought nearly as quickly as it arose, though the earnest intensity of the Inquisitor’s pale blue eyes continued to taunt the corners of his mind. This reality seemed an almost cruel parody of the world he had come from.

When Dorian realized he had spent the last several minutes staring at the same shelf of books without seeing a single one, he decided he was done with the library for the day. He wouldn’t find his answers here.

 _There’s nothing more important to me_ , the Inquisitor had said to him. Damn.

Dorian headed down the stairs slowly, his eyes sweeping by force of habit across the murals Solas had painted. The stylized pictures were lovely, but unsettling in a way he’d never quite been able to pinpoint. They were surprisingly unchanged from the paintings he remembered. Even as he stopped to examine them, he could not find a single line out of place. It made him uneasy.

Being trapped in another world was bad enough, but if he was wrong – if his mind was simply conjuring a more ideal reality – if none of this was real –

A blast of magic hit Dorian squarely across his chest as he turned around, and sent him crashing, hard, into the wall, chipping paint and plaster with his impact. Even as he began to slide toward the ground, a second wave picked him up, pinning him so hard to the wall that breath became a struggle.

The world spun. He may have blacked out for a moment.

When Dorian came to, his attention was quickly and immediately diverted to the focus orb on the end of the mage’s staff pointed inches from his nose.

“Now,” Solas said calmly. “Just _what_ are you?”


	4. Conversation

“The pain is passing, I hope?” the other mage asked dispassionately. _Hope_ seemed a rather extreme overstatement, as not only had Solas been the cause of the significant increase to Dorian’s already-pounding headache, but he’d also failed to offer any type of assistance with it. Dorian, whose own skills in healing had long ago proven somewhat inadequate to anything more challenging than a particularly wicked paper cut, found himself unwilling to test his luck taking care of it himself.

  
“I’ll probably survive,” Dorian answered, settling himself into a chair across from the elven mage’s desk. He earned a thin-lipped, humorless smile in response. “I do appreciate your letting me down from the wall though. Much more civilized this way, don’t you think?”

  
Solas lifted the teapot resting atop his desk and poured himself a fragrant, steaming cup. He did not extend the courtesy Dorian’s way, and Dorian did not ask. Apparently some things were the same in this blasted reality.

“The Fade is twisting and pulling in utter mayhem around you, and yet you are clearly no spirit,” Solas said. He took a sip, and grimaced. “As long as you continue to be truthful with me, I see no need to use further force.”

Dorian supposed it would have been far too strange if he and Solas got along in _any_ reality.

“How very charitable,” Dorian said dryly.

Solas lifted his cup and took another sip, his eyes never leaving Dorian’s face, even as Dorian frowned and shifted a little in his seat, then lifted his chin in challenge.

“I do find it interesting, however, that you’ve no recollection of the actual spell your Inquisitor used,” the elf said at last.

Dorian flashed his teeth in what was not quite a smile. “I was rather busy at the time, you know – what with my life being threatened at all. Messy business, that. Didn’t think to stop and ask what, precisely, she was tossing my way.”

“Hm. I do wonder though,” he lifted his cup again. “Whether this world’s Dorian survived.”

“Whether he survived?” Dorian repeated.

“Mn,” Solas set the cup down again. “On taking your place there,” he elaborated. “He’s clearly no longer here, is he? Not bouncing around your head like a ghost, either. So he must have gone there – yet even if the spell failed to kill him, one must wonder if your Inquisitor has since finished the job.” He folded his hands atop the desk. “If we send you back, you could very well wake in a grave – or a funerary pyre. It will certainly be something to consider.”

Dorian’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. The thought had been prickling silently in the back of his mind all morning but he hadn’t found the courage to face it yet.

“Very likely your transport here had more to do with the amulet and your Inquistor’s mark than with any particular spell,” Solas mused. “When the amulet was last used, Alexius did say it was the presence of the Rifts which made such a thing possible – though even I never anticipated something like this.”

“When the amulet was last used?” Dorian repeated.

Solas lifted his cup once more, and did not answer.

“ _Rellana_ Lavellan,” the elf said at last, rolling the name experimentally against his tongue. “It does interest me that your Inquisitor comes from the same clan as our own. Our realities must be closely connected, then. Perhaps the Keeper’s very decision of who to send to the Conclave is what caused the branching.”

“It seems your end got the better end of the deal,” Dorian said, with no small but of bitterness.

According to Solas, Ryn Lavellan was the Inquisitor here. A smart, quiet, and humble lad with surprising flashes of humor, he’d been one of his clan’s best hunters, despite his youth, and had come into the Inquisition with a strong sense of duty already instilled. Unlike Rellana, he had actually come to the help of the mages in Redcliff where, apparently, he and Dorian had first met.  
Solas did not know exactly how long Dorian and Ryn had been romantically attached, only that they had been so increasingly terrible at keeping their affair a secret that eventually they had simply been confronted about it and forced to come clean – though Solas claimed to have not paid much attention to any of that, except when the sounds coming from the library above him interfered with his concentration.

  
“Unfortunate that there is no way to predict the effect your presence here will have,” Solas said. “This gross misuse of magic may very well rip a hole in reality itself.”

  
“First holes in the sky, now reality. Oh, how very exciting!”

  
“I will have to discuss the matter further with some friends,” Solas decidedly ignored Dorian’s commentary. “I’ve no way of knowing whether returning you to your rightful world would do more harm than good. And if the Dorian from this plane is dead…” he grimaced, ever so slightly – the expression of a man who may have found himself slightly inconvenienced, perhaps. “The Inquisitor would be…hurt.”

  
_Nothing is more important to me_ , the Inquisitor had said. Ryn. Dorian fought down a bubbling rise of guilt.

  
“What are you suggesting?” Dorian asked.

  
Solas watched him for a while, silent, thoughtful.

  
“For now,” he said at last, “We keep this quiet. I will do as I can to help see you pass as the correct Dorian, at least until I have decided what to do with you.”

  
“Why, presumptuous, isn’t it, to think my fate lies solely in your hands?”

  
Solas lifted a brow. “Should I instead expose you now?”

  
Again Dorian thought of the Inquisitor – his hand in his own, his slender athletic body like a small furnace pressed to his side.

  
“Would you like to cause him such distress, worrying about the fate of his lover?” Solas asked, as if reading his mind. “The boy is moving mountains and armies and nations with each breath he takes. I suppose one more concern, added to the rest, would likely be quite heavy.”

  
“All right,” Dorian ground out. “I see your point.”

  
Solas gave another tight, thin smile.

  
Dorian felt as if he were well and truly escaping something when he left the elf’s quarters. His head was still pounding terribly and he had little doubt he would bruise from the force with which he had hit the wall. Having an ally who knew that he didn’t belong was not nearly the relief one might suppose.

  
He had never been so grateful to breathe in Skyhold’s thin, frigid air as he was when he stepped outside.

  
“There you are,” Cassandra’s voice broke him from his thoughts. Dorian turned his head to find the Seeker climbing the stairs, coming toward him with a hard, determined stride. “I was looking for you,” she said.

“It’s a side effect of such a charming and addictive personality,” Dorian said, crossing his arms against the cold. “People are always finding it impossible to stay away for too long.”

Cassandra looked at him flatly, unamused. “Don’t be cute,” she snapped.

“But of course,” Dorian said, sweeping a courtly, if slightly mocking bow. “Just what is it I can do for you, my lady Seeker?”

She scowled at him, watching him suspiciously for a moment before she grunted and looked around, as if to make sure no one was watching. With a deep, determined breath, she presented Dorian with a book.

The cover was a picture of a half-naked man, rippling with muscles, long hair flowing in the wind.

“Um,” Dorian said.

“It is _life-changing_!” Cassandra whispered feverishly, her cheeks flushing with enthusiasm. “I promise you, you will not regret reading it!”

“I…thank you?”

The Seeker stared at him for a long moment, then her expression turned to stone. “Tell no one,” she ordered.

“Er…right.”

Dorian watched her stomp off, his thoughts, if nothing else, momentarily diverted.

When he finally shook himself back to reality, Dorian Pavus made one important decision: he needed a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew - this has got to be the trickiest thing I've ever written. Thanks for reading!


	5. The Grounds

Dorian’s dreams of a good, strong drink did not last very long.

Upon reaching the tavern, he discovered, rather quickly, that the Inquisitor – Ryn. He had to remember that name. – had given as many as he could spare the next few days off to prepare for their coming excursion. Though there was no sign of the Inquisi – _Ryn_ – himself, the place was packed.

And it was noisy.

The Iron Bull and his Chargers had taken the day off as an excuse to get sloppy drunk in the middle of the afternoon. As Durian was hailed, thumped on the back, and helped through the crowd by people whose faces he barely recognized, the group took it upon themselves to see to competing with the minstrel’s rather lovely rendition of _Empress of Fire_ with the loudest, bawdiest parody they could dream up on the spot.

“Oy! Some’ve us’re trying to sleep up here!” Sera’s voice from the upper level managed to ring out, even above all that. Her messy tow-haired head appeared over the railing, disappeared – and the next thing Dorian knew she was bent precariously over the railing, hurling wadded up balls of dirty laundry at those below.

Dorian finally managed to reach the bar. The dwarven man who stood behind it appeared as indifferent as ever.

“Only real drinks today,” Cabot said dryly. “Afraid all the fancy champagne flutes are dirty.”

“No matter – champagne hardly goes with tone deaf blasphemous singing anyway,” Dorian answered, earning a snort. “I’ll take a bottle of – “

“This one’s on me!” a huge arm hooked around Dorian’s shoulders and hauled him toward the Charger’s table as Bull thrust a mug of something foul-smelling at him. “Here – this’ll put hair on your chest.”

Dorian drew away from him with a frown. Back in the real world, the Qunari’s flirting had started to get rather pointed. One look at him, however, and Dorian could see the interest he’d begun to get used to seeing was gone. Of course – here Dorian was, happily, it seemed, spoken for. He relaxed a little.

“Do you have any idea of the trouble I must go to simply to _prevent_ such a thing?” Dorian asked, affecting a scandalized mien. “Hair on my chest. Bah! I’m not Fereldan!”

“You mean you keep it that smooth on purpose? Weird.”

“Hey – what rhymes with fellatio?” someone asked, the song pausing as they tried to think of the next line.

Upstairs, Sera had forgotten she was supposed to be protesting. She flung a leg over the railing and sat, straddling it like a horse, riding lewdly as she sang at the top of her lungs – only pausing for a triumphant whoop when she successfully lobbed a bright red pair of smallclothes to hang off one of Bull’s horns. When she began again to do that thing which, Dorian supposed, was meant to be singing, the minstrel began playing even more loudly down below.

“How can anyone think in all this nonsense?” Dorian demanded. He had to repeat himself twice to be heard.

“What use is that today?” Bull asked. “Drink – drink!”

Dorian did. The stuff was foul. He took a deeper swallow as Bull gave an impressed laugh.

“That’s the spirit!” he cheered.

Dorian shook his head. He wasn’t sure he could feel his tongue. Neither the noise nor the terrible drink were helping his headache.

“It’s no White Shear, I’ll give it that,” Dorian said. Having to shout to be heard wasn’t helping either. Guiltily he remembered his promise to the Inquisitor. “What are they serving for food?”

“You feeling suicidal?” Bull laughed. “You’d have better luck at the kitchens.”

Dorian managed to stay only a few moments more before making his excuses. By the time he successfully waded back out of the crowd, Bull’s horns were hung heavily with Sera’s underthings and a few punches had been thrown over the singing competition.

Outside, the cold and the quiet made it seem like another world – Dorian grimaced slightly. _Not_ a good analogy. His pounding head was a little woozy from the small bit he’d had to drink, and he wasn’t certain if it was a result of his ordeal, an empty stomach, the strength of the drink itself, or a combination of all three.

Dorian began to walk.

Initially he intended to go to the kitchens, but his stomach threatened to turn mutinous at the thought of food, and so instead he opted to give himself a tour of the grounds.

This Inquisition was healthy, thriving, even, with strange but notable differences: healers in the courtyard instead of soldiers. An herb garden in the back instead of ornate chantry sculptures and decorative paths. Rellena didn’t believe in the Maker, but she took every available opportunity to publically paint herself as the Chosen One. Rellana’s Inquisition was about glory, power, crushing all in her way. Ryn’s appeared to be a different creature entirely.

It was an odd relief, as he walkedd, to find that there _were_ some servants and other Skyhold inhabitants who still watched him pass with suspicion and distaste. Mother Giselle was downright unfriendly, which was rather baffling. In his world, Dorian had never exchanged more than two words with her.

In his slow meandering, Dorian only caught sight of Ryn once, and only briefly. He was up on the battlements with Varric and some big, shaggy-headed stranger. Ryn stood out against the horizon, his posture proud, confident. He carried authority with him, in an unusual, understated way – a natural quality, and not one born of ego, this Dalish lad who was changing the world. Dorian watched them for a few moments before they turned and walked out of sight still in deep conversation.

Dorian wandered some more. When he at last found himself near the training grounds he stopped to watch the men run their drills. The neat lines of soldiers and Cullen’s voice ringing through the thin, cold air were the most familiar things he’d found.

When Cullen spotted him, Dorian hesitated, then lifted a hand in greeting. He remembered how the commander had stepped forward to defend him in the real world, risking Rellana’s ire for his sake. He had always been a decent sort; perhaps in this reality they were something like friends.

Cullen stared at him for a moment, then shouted a final command to his troops before making his way over.

“I swear, I don’t know why that keeps happening,” the blonde said, in an apologetic rush, as he reached Dorian. “The – you and Inquisitor Lavellen – I swear, I’m not - !”

Dorian arched a brow. He’d never seen the commander look anything but solemn, stressed, and strained. How strangely entertaining it was to watch him blush and fumble!

“Don’t let it worry you – one could hardly blame you if it _was_ on purpose,” Dorian said. “I’m certain we make quite the pretty picture, Ryn and I.” To his pleasure, Dorian managed to say the Inquisitor’s name with ease, as if he hadn’t only just learned it a few hours ago.

“Well, yes,” Cullen said, then caught himself, and his blush grew darker still. Dorian found himself smirking as the other man looked quickly away. “I mean. Oh. What?”

“Your men look good,” Dorian said, offering him a reprieve. These were not the fire-eyed fanatics who fought for Rellana – but they were proud, devoted. They believed in their cause, their Inquisitor. They had hope.

“I’m surprised we’ve been left in peace this long,” Cullen admitted, clearly grateful for the change in subject. “Josephine has been threatening to track me down for those blasted dancing lessons for weeks.” He was still red, but he relaxed a little, settling against the fence near Dorian.

“Dancing? Now that I _would_ like to see.”

“No.”

Dorian laughed.

He could do this, he thought. He could stay here, make a life. It felt right, as they lapsed into companionable silence. Solas had been right – there was little chance Dorian had survived the switch. Rellana would never have let him live. Attempting to go back would help no one, but if he stayed, he had a real chance of happiness.

“Fortunately, right now the dear lady Montillet seems more concerned with getting her hands on Blackwall than me,” Cullen broke the silence at last with a little chuckle of his own. “He’s made himself rather elusive, you know, since she mentioned a shampooing and a shave.”

“The – ah, Ryn is bringing him along to the Winter Palace, then? I hadn’t heard.”

“Who said anything about the Winter Palace?” Cullen asked dryly, and Dorian laughed. “Maker, I hope she catches him,” the blonde continued, shaking his head. “The _smell_ …”

“It _is_ a bit like manure and old socks, isn’t it?”

“It _is_ manure and old socks,” Cullen shifted forward, raising his voice. “Get that shield up, Lee! Yes, it’s _supposed_ to be heavy!”

Dorian chuckled as the soldier in question nearly leapt out of his skin and lifted his shield higher. This, Dorian thought, was what the Inquisition was supposed to be. As Cullen left his side to walk the rows of soldiers, he could see the care, the pride that went into each and every one. They were creating what he had begged Rellana to see.

Dorian felt his nerves begin to settle.

The sun was growing low on the horizon when Cullen dismissed the soldiers. Dorian was quite thoroughly frozen, but watching had helped clear his mind and calm his nerves. He still had a headache, but it had settled from its incessant pounding into a dull roar, and he found he felt much better as he and the commander made their way to the fortress’s main building.

“Don’t suppose I could come down with some sort of illness,” Cullen mused as they walked.

“Now, now, Rutherford, that sounds positively irresponsible,” Dorian chuckled. “The Inquisitor will need his commander.”

“Some sort of illness that keeps me close at hand without necessitating dealings with all those blasted rutting nobles.”

“As a blasted, rutting noble, myself, I must say I’m quite offended.”

“You know what I mean,” he groaned. “Josephine has a fitting scheduled for tomorrow. A _fitting_. For these horrible, scratchy uniforms we’re supposed to wear.”

“Do I detect a note of whining, Commander?”

“You’ll be whining soon, too. She has one ready for you as well, I’m certain.”

“Nonsense; my sense of fashion is impeccable.”

“Hard to believe that from a man wearing only one sleeve.”

“Pssh – you’re positively green with jealousy. It wouldn’t hurt a soul if you were to solicit my advice on your clothing choices, you know. I can be quite discreet.”

Cullen coughed into his hand, heat rising in his face again.

The grand hall was filling quickly for dinner. Most of Ryn’s companions had already taken seats at the Inquisitor’s table, though Ryn himself was nowhere to be seen. Dorian went to find a place at the table, carefully hopeful.


	6. The Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is weird. Sorry.

Skyhold’s great hall was so full, Dorian could not see the throne past the milling crowd. The tables had been removed to make room for them all, and tall, garishly golden statues of Andraste – no, not Andraste, the woman in the statues was clearly elven – lined the walls, watching those below with a superior sneer. Stained glass windows depicted the same woman performing in dozens of heroic deeds. The light that shined through them was a weak, sickly green.

( _Flicker. The beautiful elven boy on the throne flashed a smile when their eyes met. The hall around them was warm and bright, sparsely populated with chatting nobles. The eye of the Inquisition watched down from every window, the light golden and welcoming.)_

Dorian walked through the hall, squeezing himself through the tremendous crowd of onlookers. Though he apologized again and again, the mass of humanity hardly seemed aware of his presence.

It was miles to the throne, uphill, the incline growing steeper with each step.

( _Flicker. The hall was lit in blue and filled with chantry sisters. The humble wooden statues of Andraste that lines the walls bore expressions of mourning, and cracks in the grain led to the illusion of tears. A human woman in a white dress sat upon the austere wooden throne, then promptly vanished.)_

Dorian had to use the onlookers to haul himself each step, pulling himself up the incline to the throne. The nobles in attendance looked at him impassively though empty sockets in rotting faces. The green light pulsed sickly. Skeletal hands brushed Dorian as he passed.

( _Flicker. The hall was empty. The curtains hung limp, moldering, tattered. Heads mounted on plaques adorned the walls, and the throne was broken. As he passed, the heads began to sing. Dorian thought he recognized them.)_

The ground levelled out before the throne, and Dorian stumbled at the sudden change, then knelt, panting, before the great, gleaming monument of gold.

His hands, he realized for the first time, were bound behind him with long chains that hissed and writhed like snakes. Guards pressed hard into his shoulders, keeping him from rising.

Rellana used the toe of her slipper to lift his chin.

“You’re blind to my glory.”

( _Flicker. The Qunari on the throne drew back, eyes widening in surprise at the sight of Dorian. “What are you doing down th-?”)_

“You!” Dorian and Rellana both turned their heads, and the guards pressed more firmly into Dorian’s shoulders. The man who approached was Dorian’s double down to the curl of his mustache. He was dressed in battle robes, and Dorian’s long-lost birthright swung from his neck as he pointed his staff their way. “What have you done?” he snarled, furious.

( _Flicker_.)

Dorian was in a cell. The stone walls behind him dripped and oozed a slow black sludge, and the bars were rusted and jagged. A hand grabbed Dorian’s arm, but when he turned no one was there.

Ghostly figures flickered before him. Rellana and Dorian himself, his battle robes replaced with rags and chains. He struggled against a pair of guards and attempted to lunge at Rellana.

“If you’ve harmed him - !” his voice was rough from screaming, animalistic, nearly unrecognizable.

They vanished.

“Curious,” said a figure on the other side of the bars. “I will assist. If you beg.”

The figure rippled, changed shape, and when it approached Dorian forgot it had ever appeared to be anything else.

Another Dorian, resplendent in black and gold, a circlet adorning his meticulously kept hair, smiled knowingly as he wrapped his fingers around the bars of the cell and gave them a suggestive stroke.

“ _Imposter_ ,” this other Dorian whispered, voice low and knowing and sensual. “How does it feel to steal another man’s life?”

“I didn’t!” he protested.

The other Dorian chuckled, and stroked the bars again, cocking his head to the side. “Interesting,” it said again. Its smile seemed too wide for its face. “You want to stay, don’t you?” it crooned. “You want to… _belong_.”

“I - !”

So fast that Dorian’s eyes failed to catch the movement, the other Dorian’s hand lashed out to catch his shoulder. Its thumb pressed, then pierced, flesh, and Dorian cried out at the sudden wave of agony and bright splash of blood.

The creature’s grin widened, splitting its face, and it laughed as its skin began to crack and rot, sloughing slowly down its cheeks.

“You’ll never make a home here,” it said, and Dorian screamed as it shoved its thumb, sharp as a knife, deeper into his shoulder. “Not without my help. Now. _Beg._ ”

-

Dorian jerked upright in bed, panting, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. The room around him was dark and cold. The fire had gone out some time during the night. He was awake, but the dream lingered on the peripherals of his consciousness as he struggled to get his bearings.

His room – the same he had been sleeping in since they had found Skyhold – was still and silent around him. Same room, different world.

He grunted, his shoulder twinging with pain, as he threw back the covers.

“So, you’re telling me that the mighty Tevinter, expert in everything arcane, all powerful and infallible – doesn’t even know how to keep demons out of his dreams?” even rubbing sleep from his eyes and fighting a yawn, Solas managed to sound both superior and amused less than an hour later, after Dorian had rather rudely stormed to his room and dragged him from the bed.

Dorian slammed a heavy stack of books onto the desk between them, causing the elf to jump, mid-yawn, and shoot him a glare.

“Laugh all you like,” Dorian said. “This was not a normal dream. I didn’t _know_ I had slipped into the Fade. I didn’t realize for a single moment I was dreaming – and it was frightening. How splendidly, exquisitely hilarious. Har bloody har.” He grabbed the topmost book and sat back, hard, in his chair.

“Petulant pouting is most assuredly the solution,” Solas stated, ignoring the books. “You are aware, I hope, that by waking me you interrupted a meeting that would have proven far more useful to you than these silly tomes, yes?”

“You said you would help!”

“And I intend to.” Solas glanced around the room, then sighed as he reluctantly reached for a book. “How did you manage to avoid rousing the Inquisitor? I’m surprised he isn’t here, insisting on offering his help.”

“I wasn’t with the Inquisitor,” Dorian grumbled, flipping through the book with sharp, irritated gestures. Ryn had arrived at dinner just as Dorian had been leaving, and they hadn’t spoken. Dorian had gone up to his usual rooms without thinking twice.

Solas rubbed his temples. “So we’re to be overrun with rumors that the two of you are fighting, then,” he said. “Excellent. Please tell me, at the very least, that you were not imbecilic enough to stumble your way into someone _else’s_ bed?”

“Satisfying the body’s carnal urges is hardly at the top of my list of priorities at the moment – so, no,” Dorian snapped. “I did not find my way to someone else’s bed.”

“And they say miracles no longer occur,” the elf muttered dryly.

Dorian scowled, staring at the page before him for a moment before rolling his eyes upwards to observe the other mage once more. “He does that, does he? Sleep around, I mean?”

Solas snorted. “Your other self? No. He’s so besotted with the Inquisitor that it’s a wonder he can manage to fasten his boots in the mornings. It’s disgusting. Put that book away and tell me again about this dream. Word for word – everything said. Every detail you saw. You had no clue you were in the Fade?”

“None,” Dorian said. “It’s the damndest thing. Never in my life have I experienced anything like - !” he cut off with a hiss. He’d moved wrong, tossing the book back onto the desk.

Solas’s sharp eyes narrowed, watching him. “Your shoulder?” he asked. “The demon touched you, you said.”

“It’s a bit sore, yes.”

Solas pushed back his chair and rose, frowning. “Take off your shirt.”

“Your concern for my well-being is as heartwarming as it is shocking and disgusting. My, but never did I imagine you would be so forward!”

“Off,” he bit out. “Now.”

Dorian made a big show of sighing, but he pulled the neck of his shirt aside as Solas came around the desk.

He yelped and knocked the elf’s hand away when Solas suddenly pushed against his shoulder.

“That _hurt_!”

“You bear a bruise.”

Dorian spared a moment to glare at him, rubbing the offended flesh, but Solas as utterly unmoved by his ire. The elf rested his backside against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms, watching him thoughtfully.

Dorian glanced down at his shoulder, and found it was, indeed, marred by a deep, dark bruise, the approximate size and shape of a man’s thumb. As is often the case with injuries, looking at it prompted a throb of pain he hadn’t really noticed before.

“This,” Solas mused, “Is quite bad.”

“Brilliant,” Dorian said. “So grateful to have such a sharp, insightful mind fixed on my problem. Makes me feel just _scads_ better. Wait – where are you going?” Solas had pushed away from the desk and begun to walk away.

The elf paused for a moment, but didn’t look back.

“To make some tea,” he answered, irritated.


	7. Uniforms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inquisition gives us pretty free reign with the origins of our inquisitors, and this chapter has a bit that touches on my personal headcanons concerning clan Lavellan. You're free to disagree with them; they've just always been fun to me.

“If I did not know any better, I would suspect you were attempting to avoid me!”

Dorian stifled a yawn against his arm as he allowed Josephine to shuffle him to the out of the way room where the fittings for the uniforms they were to wear to the Winter Palace were taking place. He and Solas had gone ‘round and ‘round till dawn going over each excruciating detail of Dorian’s dream, and all to no avail. They’d finally decided to take a break an hour or two past dawn.

“Now, Sera, _she_ I expected to have to root out for a fitting. The Iron Bull, maybe. And Cole – ah, but he is Cole. But you?”

“I assure you, avoiding you was the least of my intentions,” Dorian said. Another yawn creaked his jaw at the tail end of the sentence, and he gave her an apologetic wince. “I have a proper eye and appreciation for fashion.”

“Ah,” Josephine said. “But, as I recall, you stated that the uniforms and fashion were so vastly separate creatures that they should not even be considered as existing within the same family.”

“That…does sound like me, doesn’t it? Tell me, then, just how terrible did these monstrosities turn out?”

“They are not so bad, I assure you,” Josephine smiled as she backed into a door to hold it open for him, gesturing him inside.

Whatever the room had once been used for, the indomitable will of the Inquisition had seen it fully been converted into a tailor’s workspace. Racks of discouragingly bright red uniforms, each bearing a neatly written tag with the name of a member of the party lined the walls. A trio of mirrors formed a semi-circle around a low platform, on which currently stood the Inquisitor himself, in one of the uniforms, being fussed over by an Orlesian in poofy purple pants and a bright orange mask.

“It looks as if they are just finishing up,” Josephine said, gesturing Dorian towards one of the plush couches that had been set up. “I must be off to attend to other matters. Do promise you will behave.”

“Madam, I am shocked and appalled – I would never promise such a thing, and to think you might believe otherwise, why, it’s an outrage.”

She wagged a finger at him in mock annoyance, but a sure smile turned up her lips as she turned away.

“So, she caught you at last,” the Inquisitor was watching him through the reflection in the mirrors, his own smile soft, warmth in those pale eyes of his. “ ‘I’ll shave my head bald and change my name to Fernando before I allow myself to be caught dead in one of those blasted uniforms’ – isn’t that what you said?” he lifted a brow.

Dorian cleared his throat. “Do be a dear and forget I ever said such a silly thing, will you? There’s a good lad.”

“Where would be the fun in that?”

Dorian scowled at him, earning a laugh. At the tut-tutting of the Orlesian, Ryn obediently lifted his arms. His eyes never left Dorian’s in the mirror.

“Well, you can’t mean to hold me to such foolishness!” Dorian protested.

The Inquisitor cocked his head. “Can’t I?”

“The world itself would weep.”

Ryn chuckled, his smile growing. “I suppose we could always come to some sort of arrangement…” he said.

Dorian felt his eyes widen. He stared at the lad for a moment before barking a laugh of his own. “Oh, you _are_ a delicious thing, aren’t you?”

“You’ve never complained.”

“Ah, young love, it is sweet as summer berries,” said the Orlesian, moving to his work table. “I am finished with you, your worship. A few adjustments and you will be the belle of the ball.”

“Now there’s an image!” said Ryn, unbuttoning the uniform jacket as he turned away from the mirrors. He handed the jacket to the Orlesian, and Dorian found his eyes trailing down the curve of the lad’s back. He remembered himself enough to look away as Ryn bent to remove the uniform pants, though the image of his body, bare and lovely as it had been that first morning in this world, was happily imprinted upon Dorian’s memory.

“Y – your worship, would you not rather change behind the folding screen?” the Orlesian demanded.

“It’s just a body, JeanPierre; last I checked, we all seemed to be in possession of one,” Ryn sounded distinctly amused. Dorian very studiously avoided glancing his way.

“I will return when you are decent,” the man decided, fleeing.

“Serves him right for choosing such scratchy material,” Ryn mumbled, once the door had slammed behind him. “I couldn’t wait to get those pants off.”

“You know,” Dorian said, “This sort of behavior is exactly how rumors get started.”

“What – because now we’re _alone_ and I’m not _dressed_?”

“Well, yes.”

“I don’t care if they talk. I’m proud to have my name associated with yours. In any case, I doubt there’s a single person in Thedas who doesn’t know about the two of us by now.”

“You know you’ve thoroughly scandalized that poor man.”

“I thought you liked scandal,” the Inquisitor laughed. Dorian heard a shuffle of clothing, and when he chanced a glance his way, found the elven lad standing near one of the racks, carefully hanging up the uniform whilst clad in nothing more than his smallclothes. He was comfortable, easy in his skin, and, bare as he was, the grace with which he moved that lithe limber body was even more apparent than when he was clothed.

Dorian rationalized that it would likely be more suspicious _not_ to watch. In any case, failure to appreciate such sights was surely a sin, or something. Yes.

“I doubt I’ve anything he’s never seen,” Ryn said, folding the uniform pants over a hanger. “And I remembered to wear underthings this time.”

“You are positively barbaric, aren’t you?” Dorian chuckled, enjoying the rather filthy look the lad passed him over his bare shoulder. “Your clan is rather open about such things, I take it?”

“We don’t run through the Marches naked and rutting like nugs,” Ryn laughed, pulling on a pair of simple leather breeches, his nimble fingers making short work of the laces. “But there aren’t any taboos about nudity, either. I don’t know about other clans, but we see our bodies as simply another part of the world around us.”

“Some more enchanting than others.”

He glanced at Dorian with a grin, his eyes wicked and yet so very warm. “The fact I find it amusing to watch everyone grow so very red and uncomfortable is purely incidental.”

“I’m sure.”

He drew on a shirt – plain, cotton, faded blue – and picked up his boots, crossing the room to sit next to Dorian.

“I missed you last night,” he said, bending to put the first one on. “I got held up by – oh, what was his name? Some viscount with onion breath. Josephine would know. By the time I got to dinner, you were gone, and you didn’t come up to my rooms…”

“I was feeling rather under the weather, I’m afraid.”

Ryn nodded, tugging his boot laces tight. “I was worried perhaps – well, never mind. Are you feeling better today?”

Dorian opened his mouth to answer the affirmative when his shoulder gave a sudden pulse of pain. “I’m afraid I…don’t seem to be quite myself. I apologize, Ryn.”

The lad jerked, looking up at him so quickly that for a moment Dorian feared he’d used the wrong name. He couldn’t read his expression.

“Are you sure everything is all right?” the lad asked at last.

Dorian took a breath. “ _Kaffas_. I hope so,” he said honestly.

Ryn was still watching him. “Do you want to talk about it?” he offered.

“No, I…I don’t believe I can.”

His lips twitched, tugging into a frown, and looked away as he reached for his other boot. “Is it me?” he asked.

“Why would it be you?”

He tugged hard on his boot laces, eyes focused downward, ears trembling ever so slightly. “You haven’t called me Ryn since we started sleeping together,” he said at last. “If I’ve done something – if you’re upset with me…”

“What could I possibly be upset with you about?” Dorian asked, pushing past a pang of guilt. “You’re absolute perfection. I’m not entirely certain I haven’t simply dreamt you up.”

Ryn paused for a moment, then finally sat back, pushing his hands through his hair, shaking his head, and giving Dorian a grin as he dropped his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “All of this…events have been moving nonstop, and it’s hard to catch my breath. I suppose I must be feeling a little overwhelmed.”

“Anyone would,” Dorian said. “Though I doubt most would do as well as it seems you are. Believe me when I say this could have gone terribly differently.”

He took a breath. “When we stopped to trade with humans, while everyone else was choosing spices or jewelry or silks, I always traded for books,” he said after a moment. “Everyone laughed at me, thought I was strange – some even got mad – but those books were good company on long hunts. Better than some of my companions. Sometimes I wonder if those histories and stories are all that’s keeping my head above water, here. I’m trying my best, but it seems there’s always something new I must learn.”

“You have good people helping you, and you’re smart enough to realize that.”

He made a sound of agreement and pressed his thumb into the mark on his palm, making the green glow flare, his eyes fixed, intent, on the light.

“If I fail, the world burns,” he said softly. “And before it does, my people will be the ones who suffer the most.”

“No pressure,” Dorian said.

He laughed - a short, surprised sound - and looked up, his eyes grateful and fond, a soft grin playing at his lovely mouth. “Oh, I do like you, Dorian Pavus,” he said with warmth.

“How could you possibly resist? I’m devastatingly charming.”

“I’m certainly devastated,” Ryn agreed.

It was too easy to kiss him, to lean forward and catch the sweetness of that inviting mouth. He hadn’t really meant to.

Ryn made a soft sound against his lips, his slender arms twining around him. He leaned back into the couch, drawing Dorian with him, and the mage was only too happy to follow, kissing him softly, and deeply, leisurely exploring the taste of him.

“It will not even take an hour, and then you will be free, I assure you,” Josephine’s voice preceded the opening of the door.

“I still fail to see why this is necessary,” Cullen’s voice followed. “I should be with the soldiers, not – _oh, Maker’s breath!”_

 


	8. Evening

“Come now – you can’t _really_ mean to read all of these tonight, can you? It seems that stack must be nearly as tall as you are.”

At his words, the Inquisitor looked up from a particularly thick tome, and Dorian found it a completely involuntary thing, returning the lad’s immediate, warm smile. Ryn was seated at the desk in the corner of his quarters, a lamp burning low at his elbow, and – _Maker_ but the way he looked at Dorian was enough to stop a heart.

“You came,” Ryn said, pleased.

Dorian crossed his arms to hide any trembling of his hands. When he licked his lips it seemed he could still taste Ryn from their earlier encounters.

“Was there any doubt?” Dorian asked. He had to work harder than usual at his customary show of confidence – lifting a brow, smiling wickedly as the Inquisitor rose from his desk and crossed the room to him. “How _could_ I stay away, after your _reprehensible_ behavior this afternoon?”

Ryn’s answering smile was pleased, troublesome, and every bit as wicked as Dorian’s own. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said. He stretched up to kiss him – a soft, welcoming brush of his lips that lingered, sweetly – and Dorian’s hands found his waist.

They had separated after the fitting, and circumstance had conspired to keep them apart since then. The Inquisitor was a busy man – though, apparently, determined to drive Dorian absolutely mad. Flirty looks from across the room, brief brush of fingers against his hand, or back, or neck should they happen to pass in the hall – and, once, an unexpected and utterly steamy rendezvous in an alcove that had burned so hotly and so briefly that Dorian was half tempted to believe he’d imagined it.

Dorian hadn’t needed Solas to remind him at dinner that sharing that sharing the Inquisitor’s bed was necessary in order to avoid rousing suspicion. By that point the thought had already been tormenting him for hours.

“Tell me,” Dorian said as Ryn drew back, smiling, from the kiss. “Just what is it that makes your lips taste so intoxicating?”

“Ancient Dalish secret,” Ryn murmured with a flash of that troublesome little grin of his. He leaned in to Dorian, his hard, slender body so distractingly inviting. “I couldn’t possibly share it.”

“You are simply terrible, aren’t you?” Dorian was struck by how much he found he liked the lad, even after knowing him so briefly. “All right, then, just what is it that had drawn your attention so completely when I came in? After this afternoon…”

“You expected to find me lying naked in bed, just waiting to be claimed?” Ryn asked. He took hold of both of Dorian’s hands, twining their fingers together as he glanced back at his desk, a thoughtful from creasing his brow. “I had planned to be.”

“Ah, but the Inquisitor’s work is never done, I see,” Dorian said gently. He was learning that it was no rare occurrence to find Ryn studiously employed in one endeavor or another. His priorities for the Inquisition were, thankfully, much different than Rellana’s.

Ryn sighed. “Josephine found more books on Orlais for me,” he said. “I don’t want to burden the carts with them when we leave, so I’m trying to absorb as much as I can now.”

“What is there to learn? Put on a silly frock and learn how to charmingly drone on for hours about absolutely nothing and you’re golden.” It would be a shame to hide the lad’s pretty face behind a mask though. In this light, his pale eyes were strikingly violet.

“My original plan involved climbing on the furniture and relieving myself in the topiaries, but Viviene informs me that sort of behavior is _so_ last season.”

“Charming.”

“Does it make me a terrible host if I request to finish a few more chapters before we go to bed?”

“Not at all,” Dorian said, though he’d half been considering shoving the lad over the desk, shredding his clothes, and indulging in the desire to explore that tantalizing body of his more intimately. “I’ll take to my books, you take to yours, and we shall sit in opposite corners of the room being mutually boring, and also quite rude, for as long as your heart desires.”

Ryn squeezed his hands. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “I’ll even let you decide how.”

“Now, Inquisitor, that _does_ sound scandalous.”

His smile had that troublesome hint of playful wickedness that Dorian was becoming so fond of. He squeezed Dorian’s hands again before dropping them and drawing away – reluctantly, it seemed.

“Wine?” the Inquisitor offered. Dorian noted that, up here, alone in his quarters, Ryn had removed his boots. And though a fire blazed hotly in the hearth, the lad had left all of the balcony doors open to the fresh, if cold, evening air.

“Oh, you do know me, don’t you?” Dorian asked, eyes following his movements as he went to the ornate liquor cabinet in the corner.

“I like to think so,” Ryn said.

Dorian had not thought to bring one of the many books on the Fade he still wanted to go through in hopes of finding help for his predicament. Thoughts of the Inquisitor had filled his head, with little room for anything else, and reading had been the last thing he’d expected to do when coming up to Ryn’s quarters.

He examined Ryn’s bookshelves as the Inquisitor poured the wine. His copy of Varric’s _Tales of the Champion_ was beaten up, dog eared, and clearly much loved. It was this which Dorian slid under his arm. As he turned back around, an odd flash of gold caught his eye, freezing him.

Ryn’s fingers brushed his as he handed him a glass, and Dorian startled back to reality. He had no idea how long he’d been staring. Ryn smiled when he followed his gaze, and set his own glass down to pick up the golden chain and set it ‘round Dorian’s shoulders.

“Were you tearing your quarters apart looking for it?” he teased lightly. “You must have left it up here yesterday morning.”

The old familiar weight of the Pavus birthright against his chest made it hard to form words. Dorian had too many questions, none of which he dared ask.

“Come on,” Ryn said, picking up his books and his wine.

They curled up on the couch together, and Ryn dragged a quilt over them for warmth before snuggling in at Dorian’s side. It was an old tattered thing, the quilt, of Dalish design – he must have brought it to the Conclave with him. Dorian opened his book against his knee, but there was no way he could have concentrated on the words, even were his long lost birthright not resting to inexplicably around his neck.

There was something terribly, wonderfully, heart-breakingly domestic about the scene, and he found himself aching with jealousy for the man he had replaced – that this could have so easily been his life all along, is clan Lavellan had sent Ryn and not Rellana. A lover who was his – openly, proudly, claiming him without hesitation or embarrassment. An easy, trusting companionship without games or deceit. A place of belonging.

Ryn was a warm flame at his side, comfortable. He didn’t need to fill the silence or jump directly to sex. This – whatever this was – was, unbelievably, _more_ than that.

_How?_

Dorian could not begin to fathom how such a thing could have occurred. Ryn was attractive, yes – most of his kind were distractingly fetching – and he was a pleasure to speak to. But Dorian had not come to the Inquisition looking for the pleasures of a lively bedmate. As distracting as Ryn was, he doubted the other Dorian had simply seduced him. Two days in his company and Dorian liked him enough to raise concern.

How had it gone? How terrified he must have felt, approaching this delightful lad, knowing it could all turn out as miserably as any other relationship he’d ever hoped for. How had this trust that Ryn so freely implied even developed? With a _Dalish_ , no less?

How had Dorian gotten his birthright back?

Hours passed. They drank their wine, Ryn studies, and Dorian held him, his thoughts in a whirl. And yet, despite the silence, and the churning, maddening torment of his unanswered questions, something in Dorian felt distressingly content.

This could be his life now, he told himself. He had no cause to seek to return to that nightmare of a world he had come from, where Rellana was driving the Inquisition into the ground, and where Dorian was alone.

It eventually became clear that the Inquisitor had fallen asleep, mid-way through his third book, his head on Dorian’s shoulder. He didn’t stir when Dorian lifted him and carried him to the bed, or even when, after a moment’s hesitation, Dorian undressed him, then covered him warmly with blankets.

How exhausting it must be, being the Inquisitor. Doing it the right way. The world on his shoulders, watching his every move, waiting to see him fail. All reason and logic said he should never succeed, and yet he was trying, with every fiber inside himself.

Dorian didn’t know what he was looking for when he went to Ryn’s desk. Clues to tell him more about the boy he thought the other Dorian must have come to care a great deal for, perhaps. Things to help him fit in this world without raising awkward questions.

Solas believed it was Clan Lavellan’s choice of who to send to spy on the conclave that marked the difference in Dorian’s world and this one. By that theory, Dorian and the man he had replaced were utterly the same, up to the point where they joined the Inquisition. Ryn and Rellana, they were the catalysts to every difference that had grown up between the two worlds.

Dorian found that Ryn looked over every report that crossed his desk, from spy activity to troop movements to kitchen waste. Many bore notes in a tin, simple hand Dorian determined to be Ryn’s.

He paused, and sat down, hard, in the desk chair when he found a stack of letters bearing his own father’s seal.

Rellana had tricked him – allowed his father to ambush him in the Redcliff tavern. It hadn’t occurred to him that the man might have tried the same vile trick here as in Dorian’s world, and that, if he did – had Ryn done the same? That day – the humiliation, the fear, the sickening, twisting hate. Could Ryn have done the same thing to him? Why would he be in contact with Dorian’s father?

He glanced toward the bed, then back at the stack of letters lying in the open drawer. His hand shook as he reached for them. The topmost letter slid easily out of the envelope. Under it was Ryn’s half-finished response.

Again he glanced toward the bed, where the lad continued to sleep so soundly. His hand curled gently near his face, lighting him in the soft green glow of his mark. The weight of Dorian’s birthright felt heavy around his neck. He felt like a fool. He’d been so attention starved, so desperate, that he’d allowed himself to be taken in by a pretty face and a welcoming smile.

He pushed up from the chair, paced the room, found the wine bottle they’d broken into earlier. He thought about Ryn’s lips, about his heart-stopping glances and the warm press of his hands, and Dorian had to drink the bottle nearly empty before he could return to the desk.

 _Your Worship,_ his father’s letter read. _My boy is willful and headstrong at the best of times, and I hope you will see reason where he has not._

_I will increase my previous offer by double for the safe return of my son to me. The mages, monies, and soldiers I can provide your endeavor would surely tip the scales whichever way you choose._

_My son is priceless to me, and I long to have him returned safely to my side. Please help him to see reason, voluntarily or otherwise._

The signature was a familiar flourish. Below it, in Leliana’s hand: _Inquisitor – can we truly afford to continue to ignore this?_

Dorian felt sick. _Voluntarily or otherwise_ , his father had written. Yes, he knew what that meant, and it would hardly be the first time, would it. He should have known. He should – panic was rising in his chest, and hurt. If a thing seemed too good to be true, it likely was. It was several moments before he took another swig of the wine and forced himself to pick up Ryn’s response.

 _Master Pavus, your son agreed to communication with you at my best alone_ , Ryn had written, his thin handwriting sharp, as if he had written quickly. _I shudder to think of his heartbreak when he learns you continue to make such suggestions – for do not think for a moment I would keep this from him._

_Set your attentions to rebuilding what was broken, and do not ask this of me again. Dorian is a good man, not a child requiring minding, and this Inquisition remains in great need of his talent, his strength, and his heart._

_Master Pavus, we both speak as men who dearly love your son. I beg you to utilize this chance you have been given – do not waste the one slim opportunity reconciliation has offered._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact number 1: though Dorian keeps describing him as a "lad", Ryn is actually the older of the pair.
> 
> Fun fact number 2: I literally rewrote this chapter 12 times.


	9. The Second Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize - I've had a very long day and don't feel like looking over this for typos before posting. I know that's very unprofessional of me. Please ignore any you find.

The skies were heavy, dark, and low, the ruined walls of Skyhold’s Great Hall piercing them like daggers. Thunder crashed, the jagged skittering of lightning across the open expanse like the movement of thousands of roaches fleeing to darkness.

_A dream_ , Dorian told himself. He had to remember that this time.

Though there was naught but ruing and destruction around him, the tables had been set for a banquet. Sometimes, when the lightning flashed, it exposed hundreds of hungry eyes, tracking his every move. Dorian decided it was likely best not to too closely examine the distinctly head-shaped offerings laid out on silver platters atop the tables.

He wore gold and black silk brocade, and a crown of gilded leaves that pierced his brow. A cape that glittered with diamonds flared behind him. His fine boots, when he began to walk, pulled though thick, dark sludge.

_A dream_ , he reminded himself again, and a part of him wondered why he clung so desperately to so nonsensical a concept. What meaning did that word even have?

Lightning darted across the barren sky, and the eyes – the eyes _watched_.

“Hello?” Dorian called.

Something in the darkness hissed and his shoulder gave a tremendous throb, sending him to his knees in the sludge, and the shadows laughed.

A throne sat at either end of the hall, facing each other, Dorian stranded in between.

_A dream_ , Dorian chanted in his head. _A dream, a dream, a –_

“ _They’ll send you back, and I will have your head_ ,” Rellana said. “ _I’ve already taken the others. Nothing but ash awaits you here_.” The throne she sat upon was so encrusted with gold and gems that he did not at first notice it was crafted from human bones. She sat resplendent in a ball gown like the night sky, her hair piled high atop her head. A gash like a bright red smile stretched across her throat. She smiled at him, eyes sightless. “ _What would you give to stay?”_

Dorian turned away.

_A dream_. He clung stubbornly to that thought.

The throne on the opposite end of the hall drew his gaze. It must once have been an impressive thing. Constructed of beautifully interwoven branches, though it was now dry and dead and brittle, it must once have been gleaming and alive.

“ _I can never do this without you, Dorian,”_ a voice whispered. _“What would you give to save me?”_

The slender figure slumped on the throne was only being held in place by the ornate sword that pierced his chest and pinned him to the chair. His head was bowed, but he began to lift it, slowly, dark hair sliding away from a beautiful face, pale blue eyes, nearly purple, filled with agony.

_A dream, a dream, a –_

“ _Dorian_ ,” Ryn rasped.

The thought, whatever it had been, vanished from Dorian’s mind. He pushed up from the ground even as another man – another Dorian – cursed and struggled, with blood-slick fingers, to pry loose the blade that pierced the Inquisitor’s heart.

“ _Venhedis – Amatus!”_ the other Dorian choked, sobbing.

“ _What will you give?”_ Ryn whispered, slowly, tenderly lifting a hand to stroke his cheek, leaving a red streak in his touch’s wake.

Dorian took a step forward, pulled, irresistibly, as a hot, coppery rain began to fall.

“ _Amatus!_ ” the other Dorian cried again.

Dorian took another step – and found his way barred. An elven man stood before him, where none had been before.

“That is quite enough,” he said. His features were lean and hungry, his eyes glowing golden in the darkness.

“Out of my way!” Dorian cried. Ryn was staring at him, pleading, pained. The other Dorian’s hands slipped on the sword hilt and he fell to his knees before him.

“ _Help me,_ ” Ryn said, the life bleeding from his eyes.

“I have to – “ Dorian began.

“No,” Solas said sternly, and his hand closed around Dorian’s wrist like a shackle.

\--

Dorian sat up in bed, and for a moment the pain in his shoulder was so intense he couldn’t catch his breath. Burning, searing, the air felt like fire in his lungs as he sucked in desperate breaths, the unfamiliar room dipping and swaying and swirling around him. For a moment he didn’t feel quite real.

Cool hands touched his brow, pushed back matted, sweat-soaked hair. Long brown fingers, artistic and graceful but rough and calloused, gently stroked his cheek, his neck, his back. There as the low, unfamiliar hum of a voice.

And then reality snapped, hard, back into place.

“ – ian. Just a nightmare. It’s all right,” the Inquisitor’s words slowly began to act like words in Dorian’s brain. His voice was thick, heavy with sleep, but patient. Dorian shook himself, turning to the lad, and Ryn pulled him close without question, holding him, stroking his hair.

_What would you give to save me?_

The room was dark and cold, the balcony doors still open and the fire having died out some hours ago. Ryn’s eyes glowed gently in the shadows, reflecting what little light there was.

“It’s all right,” though sleep stained Ryn’s voice, there was something in it that said, without question, _I will make it right._

Dorian threw back the covers and slipped from his arms, crossing the room, stepping outside. The harsh, icy night air cooled him, made it easier to breathe, easier to think. He gripped the railing and bowed his head.

_Amatus!_ His own voice echoed in his head – an anguished, panicked, painful sound ripped from his throat as blood-slick hands scrambled for the blade.

He hadn’t heard Ryn approach, but his arms slid slowly around him from behind. He waited to be questioned, but Ryn didn’t speak. He felt him kiss his back through the thin fabric of his shirt, and then he simply held him, his grip strong and firm.

_Amatus_. Could it be that the bond between Ryn and the man Dorian had replaced had been even stronger than he’d thought? _We both speak as men who dearly love your son_ , Ryn had written.

His shoulder throbbed and guilt, sickly and thick, churned in Dorian’s belly.

It wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t asked for this.

Why _shouldn’t_ he stay? Why shouldn’t he have all this?

_What would you give to stay?_

The damage had already been done, and, despite the doppleganger Dorian had seen in his dreams, he had no doubt whatsoever Rellana would have killed that man, or worse, by now. Unfortunate for that Dorian, but it was done now. It was _done._

“You’re shivering,” Ryn said at last, softly, kissing his shoulder. “Come back to bed.”

Dorian didn’t feel the cold. He felt nothing but pain, and the churning, insistent guilt. He followed as Ryn drew him back into the room. He sat, watching, from the bed as Ryn quietly closed the balcony doors and knelt to restart the fire.

When he closed his eyes, he could see nothing but a sword piercing that warm, caring heart, the life fleeing from those beautiful violet eyes.

He let Ryn draw him down to lay in each other’s arms, allowed him to hold him tight, kiss his brow, curl his lithe little body protectively around him –

But his thoughts did not let him rest, and he did not find sleep again.

\--

Solas seemed irritated, the next day, when Dorian told him about the dream.

“That wasn’t me,” Solas said. “I was not in your dreams. I spent the night looking for someone, and _you_ – !” he cut himself off, frowning, looking at Dorian as if the other mage had orchestrated it all on purpose.

They were outside, watching as the laborers filled carts for their upcoming trip. The sounds from the practice yard helped cover the conversation, and the cold air helped keep Dorian’s head clear. The Inquisitor hoped to have them on the road before noon, and when Solas wasn’t snarling at Dorian his ill humor seemed entirely devoted to the very large mug of tea he held wrapped in his pale hands.

“I what?” Dorian asked, his own patience growing sharp, ragged edges.

Solas pursed his lips, eyes on the carts. He lifted his mug to his lips, drinking almost absently, then giving the cup an accusing, unfriendly look.

“The Fade,” he said tartly, “Is one singular place, connected, regardless of reality – though crossing from your own area to another is strenuous, dangerous, and difficult, even for the most talented of Dreamers. To assist with your problem, I have been searching the Fade for the finest mind I know. My own.”

“You…want to ask yourself for help?” Dorian repeated slowly.

Other members of the Inquisitor’s party had begun to trickle into the yard, bringing their bags to be added to the carts. Vivienne was trailed by six servants laden with heavy boxes. Sera’s bag… _moved_ , and made suspicious noises. Blackwall seemed to have packed little more than a single frying pan.

“If I know the full situation going on in that world, I can more fully discern the best manner in which to proceed. With only guesses to assist me, I do not know if I should even attempt to find a way to send you back.”

“I’m not going back,” Dorian stated immediately, shoving down the twist of guilt that followed.

Solas’s lips compressed again and he was silent again for a long moment. “If I do decide to allow you to remain here,” he said, “Then I will have to find a way to repair the damage.”

“Damage?”

Solas hesitated, opened his mouth to answer, then promptly closed it without a word.

“It appears as if we have everything nearly ready a last,” Josephine’s voice came from behind Dorian seconds later. When he turned it was to find the cheerful Antivan climbing the stairs to join them. The Inquisitor was with her.

Josephine, though no doubt furiously busy, looked as if she was having the time of her life. An impressive display would be required for the Winter Palace, necessitating the need for her to coordinate a far larger party than the Inquisitor usually travelled with. She was in her element and clearly enjoying herself, cheeks flush with excitement and hair slightly askew.

It was the Inquisitor, however, who was truly eye catching. The blue and grey travelling leathers he wore were far finer than what Dorian was accustomed to seeing him in. They were well cut, flattering – meant to impress whoever might see Andraste’s chosen Herald pass on the road. The front ends of his dark hair had been pulled back to leave his lovely face bare, and a fine bow rode over his shoulder. He wore his authority well – chin raised, shoulders proud.

Dorian found it difficult to look at him.

He had left the bed long before the Inquisitor had woken, and he studiously avoided meeting the lad’s inquiring gaze now.

“Are the two of you certain you have everything in your carts you wish to take?” Josephine asked. “We will make our departure shortly, and with this amount of people we will be unable to turn around because you forgot your mustache combs, Dorian.”

“Lady Montilyet, I cannot fathom your need to bestow such a pointed look upon my person,” Dorian said. “I am quite certain such a thing could not have happened more than one time.”

“Current count is seven times,” Josephine corrected.

“To be fair, he’s usually fairly distracted while packing,” Ryn offered with a smile.

“Perhaps I will make a note to have someone else see to Dorian’s possessions from now on,” Josephine murmured, jotting something in her notes. Ryn shot Dorian a brief, wicked look over her shoulder. “And you, Cole?” Joesphine asked without looking up.

Dorian nearly jumped when he saw the boy – sitting on the wall watching him from under the wide brim of his hat. He hadn’t noticed him there before – hadn’t expected to see him. Rellana hadn’t allowed the odd spirit to remain long with the Inquisition. He stared at Dorian as if unable to see anything else.

“You!” Cole began, excitedly. He hopped down from the wall and began to approach.

Dorian had never seen Solas move so quickly. The other mage positively leapt into action, showing his tea mug into Cole’s hands and grabbing the boy firmly by the arm.

“Cole, I require your assistance with something of vast importance!” he said briskly, pulling him toward the stairs. “I require your presence immediately!”

“But Dorian is - !”

“ _Now._ ”

He was whispering furiously as he led the spirit boy away. Dorian could have almost groaned.

He jumped as he felt a light touch at his elbow.

“Good morning,” Ryn said quietly.

“Such as it is,” Dorian answered. He wasn’t certain what he was supposed to do. Expansive shows of devotion in public rang as somewhat gauche, yet he knew there was a part of himself that would delight in the very thing – and so far in Dorian’s experience Ryn had yet to shy from publically claiming attachment to him. Would the other Dorian have greeted his lover with a kiss?

Guilt twisted like a knife in his belly at the thought, and as if in response his shoulder gave a throb, ringing numbness that coiled down his arm nearly to the tips of his fingers.

“ – longer, do you think, Joesphine?” the Inquisitor was asking. The moment for a greeting kiss had passed. He had shifted closer to Dorian, but was not touching him.

She checked her list, marking off a few items and nodding to herself. “I would say – three more hours, your worship,” she answered.

“Can you make it two?”

“I will see what can be accomplished,” she said.

“Dorian, will you walk with me?” Ryn asked. “While I inspect our progress.”

“It would be nothing short of a delight, of course. For you, I mean.” Forian offered him his other arm, even as he flexed his fingers at his side, struggling to bring feeling back. At the look his words earned him, he managed a fairly believable chuckle. “Oh, all right – I suppose it would be a pleasure for me, as well.”

“That’s generally the intent. Mutual pleasure.”

Dorian laughed, and this time it was sincere.

 

 


	10. Question

In his dreams, Rellana had as much as admitted to executing the Dorian who belonged in this world. _There is nothing but ash for you here_ , she had said, her eyes glassy and dead and cruel; a demon to tempt him, he was sure, into making a deal to stay.

But the other Dorian, he had been there as well, cursing, slick hands scrabbling for purchase on the sword that pierced Ryn’s chest. _I can’t do this without you_ , Ryn had said, dying so slowly. Had he been meant, Dorian wondered, as a temptation for that other man? Was the other Dorian alive, and dreaming as well?

Or was he dead, as the demon impersonating Rellana had said, his soul lost in the Fade, unaware it was over?

The questions relentlessly circled his mind as Dorian walked the yard with the Inquisitor on his arm – as he noted, once again, how many of the soldiers and servants and various other inhabitants of Skyhold greeted him with significantly less hatred and suspicion than he had grown used to in the old world.

It was a clear, cold day – good for travelling. The sky was cloudless and blue, and Skyhold’s mood seemed pleasant even as its occupants made themselves busy with final preparations. Rellana would never have walked like this without pomp and flair and a retinue of followers. Ryn greeted people with a smile and a nod, and often even knew them by name.

“They think it’s some sort of mysterious Dalish magic,” Ryn confessed softly, giving Dorian a grin after the third or fourth showed signs of surprise at his greeting. “But I’ve been trying to learn everyone who walks through those gates. Leliana gives me the reports of new arrivals twice a week.”

“And you memorize them?”

“As many as I can…I suppose memory tricks could count as mysterious Dalish weirdness, after all,” his laughter was light. He paused to examine the line of soldiers running last minute drills, then led Dorian up the stairs to one of the battlements near Cullen’s office.

The wind was stronger here, colder, sending hair and cloaks fluttering, but while Dorian crossed his arms and pulled his cloak more tightly around himself, Ryn closed his eyes and let the icy breeze wash over him.

“If you wanted to get me alone, there are warmer places,” Dorian pointed out.

Ryn smiled, glancing at him as he moved to let his backside rest against the low stone wall. “Too tempting,” he said. “Dorian – I feel like I’m being a nuisance to continue asking this, but are you _certain_ everything is all right?”

Surreptitiously Dorian gave his fingers a flex; his arm still felt strange from the reoccurring pain in his shoulder. “Is there any reason why it shouldn’t be?”

“Something just feels…different about you lately.”

“To be certain, I don’t know what it could be,” Dorian lied, watching him. He had so many questions, so many things about the lad he yearned to know. Things that, surely if he was who he claimed to be he would know by now – what Ryn’s family was like, or how he felt being called Herald and surrounded by humans, even simple things. Favorite dish. Favorite color.

He wanted to know how they had come together – had it been as involuntary, as gravitational as it now felt? He wanted to know what had happened in Redcliff, and if his being from Tevinter had ever come between them. He wanted to know what their first time sleeping together had entailed, how it had come about, how they had realized it was more than a fling – and how Ryn’s beautiful face looked when it was flush with passion.

Those were all memories that belonged to another man.

“Do you love me, Ryn?” Dorian heard himself ask, the question slipping from his lips without his permission. They had been quiet for quite some time, Ryn watching the yard below, Dorian watching Ryn.

Ryn had turned around, placing his elbows on the wall to watch the soldiers in the yard below. He jerked a little at the question, glancing back over his shoulder at him, and was silent for a long moment.

“That bad?” Dorian asked at last.

Ryn shook his head. “You’ve never wanted to talk about this, Dorian,” he said quietly. “You said getting syrupy with one another was simply tempting fate, just asking Corypheus to make certain neither of us survive.”

“Right,” Dorian said. He thought of his dream, the other man calling Ryn _Amatus_. He thought of the letter Ryn had written to his father. _We both speak as men who dearly love your son._ “Just this once – humor me.”

The Inquisitor watched him a long moment, then turned those pale, thoughtful eyes of his on the yard again without answering. Dorian slowly moved to join him, leaning elbows against the wall just as Ryn had done, mirroring his position as he waited at his side.

“I love you,” Ryn said, breaking the silence at last. “I have for a long time.”

“Oh,” Dorian said. He wasn’t sure why it should hurt to hear, save that he knew the words he had waited his entire life for were, in fact, meant for someone else.

“What’s really going on, Dorian?” Ryn asked. “What are you keeping from me?” He did not look at him, no matter how the mage stared.

“I…” Dorian began, unsure of what could possibly come after that. Ryn waited, and when he finally did look at him, Dorian found it even more impossible to go on.

Ryn’s hand reached out, fingertips gently grazing the back of Dorian’s head, sliding into the dark strands of hair.

“ _Dorian_ ,” he said.

“It’s nothing,” Dorian lied.

He saw the pain flicker across Ryn’s face, the hurt.

He knew Dorian was lying.

“Ryn,” Dorian began.

“Oh – no, now, this has got to stop. Maker – in front of my _office_ now?”

Ryn’s hand slid slowly from Dorian. He straightened, turning to face Cullen.

“Nothing untoward up here, Commander,” he said, and his smile was strained. “Your men look good. Do you have everything you need for the journey?”

“I – well – yes. Everything is prepared,” Cullen said, looking between the two of them with a frown.

Ryn nodded, drawing his shoulders back, looking every bit the Inquisitor. “I should go check in with Josephine, then,” he said. “We must be nearly ready.”

He didn’t look at Dorian.

“It seems my streak of bad timing is only getting worse,” Cullen said. “I am sorry, Dorian. I swear to you, I’m not doing this on purpose.”

Dorian stared after the Inquisitor, and it took conscious effort to shake his head. “No, I…I’m quite certain it isn’t your fault.”

“Frankly, I’m only relieved that everyone had their clothes on this time. Getting to where I can pick your backsides out of a lineup.”

“As no doubt captivating as it must be to stumble upon someone such as myself in a state of undress, I’m afraid it wasn’t that sort of…conversation.”

“Oh,” Cullen said. “Do you - ?”

Dorian didn’t wait for him to finish the question.

“I should go check on my luggage,” Dorian said, stepping past him to head down the stairs.


	11. Midnight

“No - !”

Dorian sat up in bed, and for a moment the pain that thrummed with his heartbeat through his shoulder and arm was so intense it made the room dip and swirl around him. He couldn’t catch his breath.

Sweat coated his body and plastered his hair to his head, and the edges of his vision were blurry. It was difficult to get his bearings in the unfamiliar room, where the shadows seemed to leer and grin with malicious intent, and for a humiliating moment Dorian feared he might sick up.

It had been one of the worst nightmares he’d had so far, and, worryingly, he could barely remember the majority of it. The demons who stalked his slumber were growing aggressively cleverer.

No strong archer’s arms wrapped themselves around him to brace his shuddering form. No sweet mouth sought to chase the darkness with soft, comforting kisses.

Dorian was alone.

Panting, desperately sucking in each mouthful of air, Dorian threw back the covers and rose from the bed.

Still a good two days ride from the Winter Palace, the Inquisitor’s party had stopped at a large inn for the night. Though the majority of the entourage still found themselves relegated to sleeping in tents outside, those of higher rank had rooms – and real beds – inside. As a pivotal member of Ryn’s inner circle, that had meant private quarters for Dorian.

Though Dorian had been thrilled with the unusual turn of luck earlier (though not so much with the far too numerous questioning looks when people realized he and the Inquisitor would be spending another night in separate beds) now he found that the walls felt too close, the hearth too warm. He threw on a thin robe, mindful of his throbbing shoulder and the creeping numbness down his arm – it took upwards of an hour to pass, these days – and shoved his feet into a pair of slippers, then fled the room.

A light was coming from underneath the door to the Inquisitor’s rooms, and almost involuntarily Dorian found himself stopping before it. Even over the lingering horror of the dream, Dorian found his desire to enter nearly overwhelming.

He knew what he would find if he did – Ryn in a chair, or on the bed, or perched in the open windowsill, barefoot and beautiful, dark head bowed over reports, or books, or letters, or maps. Ryn, his pale eyes tired but warm, foregoing sleep to get just a little more work done.

Dorian ached to go to him.

They hadn’t shared a bed since leaving Skyhold, and they had spoken only little since that conversation in front of Cullen’s office. Dorian _missed_ him. Significantly.

Ryn knew. He didn’t know what was going on, no, but he knew _something_ was wrong, and he’d made himself clear – he would not tolerate being lied to, however much being apart hurt.

That it did hurt, there was no question. Ryn’s eyes followed Dorian whenever they were near each other, and he’d begun to lose more and more sleep, throwing himself into work rather than give his body the rest it needed.

“Make something up,” Solas had snapped at him several days ago on the road, losing his temper. “We cannot afford to have him in this state!”

But Dorian couldn’t lie to him again. Ryn would know, and he would have to watch the pain flash in his eyes, and…

Pausing in the hall, Dorian pressed his palm to the door. He could picture how it would go – Ryn looking up, all quiet Dalish dignity and great, wounded eyes. His long fingers would comb through Dorian’s hair when he buried his head in his lap like a terrified child. Silent, comforting – he wouldn’t ask the questions no doubt searing his mind.

But he would expect his answers.

And Dorian – Dorian couldn’t –

What was he supposed to say? _The man you love is gone, probably dead, and I’ve replaced him. Please, accept me anyway._

_Please, love me too._

His hand was on the doorknob. Dorian shuddered and, with great effort, pulled it away.

Downstairs in the common room, Solas was already up and waiting on him.

“That was far too close this time!” the other mage hissed as soon as he saw him. He’d begun to frequent Dorian’s dreams in the hopes it would lead him to the Solas of the other reality, moreso than for the chance he might be able to help protect Dorian. But Dorian had seen neither himself nor the other Solas in quite some time. “Have you even attempted to perform the concentration exercises I suggested?”

Dorian lifted a hand to wave him away, and it took everything within him to hade the pain that continued to sear his every nerve.

“I’m no novice – I’m doing the best I possibly can, I assure you. Do you think I _enjoy_ this nonsense?”

“Yes. Oh, I see. A pretty lot of good ‘I did my best’ will sound when you wake up possessed.”

“I know perfectly well how to protect myself,” Dorian snapped. “This is – it’s…and where _were_ you, anyway, blast it?”

“I should not allow myself the waste of being surprised that you fail to recognize the gratitude you owe for the fact that I am able to assist you at all,” he said, his tone heavily implying that Dorian was nothing but a petulant child. “Tracking another mage in the Fade is not an easy feat under _normal_ circumstances. Considering your situation…”

“All right – all right!” Dorian snapped. “ _Thank_ you for showing up, even though you _were_ late!”

“You…are somewhat welcome, even if that _was_ predominantly unappreciated sarcasm.”

Dorian heaved a sigh and threw himself into a chair, letting the silence stretch between them while they both struggled to cool their tempers.

“Another night, I think, and the servants are bound to start asking if they can use the bags under my eyes for additional storage,” Dorian huffed at last.

“He is worried about you,” Cole said.

Dorian lifted his head. He always forgot to expect to see Cole, and so he never did – unless the boy chose to make himself known.

The Spirit was seated atop the bar, idly swinging his feet. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling as if he could see up into the room above.

“Day and night, night and day and night again,” Cole said. “Even in his dreams.”

“I thought you couldn’t read the Inquisitor,” Dorian said.

Cole blinked at him, those big, unsettling eyes peering out from under the wide brim of his hat. “He’s never had such a big hurt before,” he pointed out.

Dorian felt as if the lad had punched him. “Cole,” he said. “Please. Stop.”

The boy closed his mouth, tilting his head, looking at him owlishly.

“The fact remains that the demons are growing yet more aggressive,” Solas said. “You draw them to you – your presence in this world weakens not only the Veil but reality itself. Until we can find a way to stabilize it, you will continue to be vulnerable.”

“And you can’t work on that if you are stuck watching after me every time I close my eyes,” Dorian said. “Yes – yes, I know.”

“You are still avoiding the Inquisitor?”

He glared, but the other mage seemed utterly unimpressed. “Yes,” Dorian bit out. “And I would kindly think you to keep that nose of yours _out_ of my sex life.”

“Or lack thereof,” Solas’s smile was decidedly not nice.

“Aching, missing, wondering, hurt – how is it I never knew how _lonesome_ felt?”

“Cole. _Please.”_

Solas compressed his lips into a thin line. “There is too much riding on his shoulders for it to be wise to allow Ryn to spare even a moment of distraction worrying about _you_.”

“Isn’t that also the reason behind keeping this a secret from him in the first place?” Dorian demanded. “I can’t have it both ways. I can’t lie to him _and_ share his bed – even if I wasn’t positive he sees right through me, the fact remains that he deserves better consideration than that.”

“Aching, wanting, I _like_ him.”

“Cole!” It wasn’t Ryn the lad was reading now.

Solas crossed his arms. His expression made it clear how foolish he found Dorian’s concerns. “This is your life,” he said. “Or will be, once we – correction, once _I_ – ascertain the best method by which to stabilize your effect on this plane and stop you from calling every spirit in the Fade to come possess you.”

“I know.”

Solas stared at him a moment more, still frowning, before he finally turned away. “I will work on it further before morning,” he said. “Please try to avoid returning to sleep, if you can.”

Dorian shook his head. “You didn’t even catch the worst of it tonight,” he said. “Believe me when I say I will consider myself fortunate if I ever manage to sleep again.”

He could feel Cole’s eyes on him as he retreated back to the stairs. He was glad, when he passed the Inquisitor’s room, to see there was no longer a light coming from underneath the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On top of being super late, this one is also pretty short. I kind of like this one, though, despite the brevity.
> 
> Confession: the next one hasn't been written yet. Whoops. Things have been pretty wild at work, but I still hope to have the next chapter ready by next weekend.


	12. Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so late! This chapter is a little different. Hope you enjoy.

“Why have we not stopped yet? It is clearly going to rain.”

“Maybe it won’t rain too hard. Commander Cullen is fairly intent we reach our destination today. I doubt any of us are likely to melt, in any case.”

Cassandra huffed, a sound of disgust on her frowning lips as she examined the dark horizon. “We will arrive at the Winter Palace looking like drowned rats,” she spat.

Despite everything else on his mind, Ryn found a small grin tugging at his mouth. “Oh, I doubt he’ll keep us marching for too long once it starts,” he said. “You know the rain does terrible things to his hair.”

The warrior barked out a laugh – a reluctant sound pulled, it seemed, involuntarily from her – and gave Ryn a mildly accusatory look. “That was funny.”

“It was meant to be.”

“Tch.” She sounded utterly disgusted, but as she settled back, arranging and rearranging the fall of her warhorse’s reins in her lap, Ryn could see her struggle to suppress another smile, another chuckle. “You are a bad influence,” she said at last.

“ _Ma serannas!_ My work here is done!” Ryn managed to summon a modicum of cheer, and was rewarded by a heavy huff and a reluctantly amused glare from his companion. It helped, a little.

The storm slowly encroaching on their party would be a heavy one, and likely delay their arrival more than Cullen would be willing to admit yet. Ryn could already feel the change of air pressure against his skin as the system rolled in, could already smell the spark of ozone. Back home, such a storm would have sent his people scrambling to brace the aravels, packing up or tying down their belongings, herding the halla to shelter. Ryn had witnessed such a scene enough times that he could have easily and clearly pictured it in his mind’s eye, if he so chose to.

Ryn did not choose to.

As Inquisitor, he could more than likely have called for the stop himself, if he’d wished to. He wasn’t certain what sort of shelter was available – more than half a day’s journey still from their destination, the landscape seemed predominantly farmland – but they could, he supposed, crowd into the carts and wagons, hastily throw up the sturdier tents.

But it seemed doing so might undermine not only his commander, who set the pace, but also his spymaster, who no doubt had men scouting ahead for shelter. His advisors were good, Ryn had come to trust them, but humans could be – touchy? Picky? Complicated? – about things like that, and it was hard to predict when offense, even accidental, might be given.

Or perhaps he’d simply been reading too many books about Orlais.

Ryn had been a solitary creature before the tumultuous events which eventually led to his heading the heretical upstart Inquisition. Orphaned at a young age, he’d spent his childhood going from one family to the next, raised by the entire clan, rather than one household, the burden shared – though, everyone had always been quick to assure him, he was, of course, never a burden. The responsibility of the trouble gone to for his raising had always sat with him.

Studious and solemn as a child, he’d found he was most happy, most comfortable, in the forest, on his own. He’d applied himself to the skills of the hunt both to earn further independence and to repay his clan, help support those who had supported him. He’d been permitted his vallaslin relatively early.

Ryn the oddity – everyone’s son, everyone’s brother – who traded for human books to read on his long solitary hunts. Responsible and gentle of humor, respectful of life, he’d been well liked, if not well understood, and he’d considered himself happy enough. Content, perhaps.

To say he’d been surprised when Keeper Deshanna chose to send him to the conclave would have been an understatement. One of the warriors, perhaps, or her bright and cunning First, Rellana. But Ryn…

If he closed his eyes he could almost summon the memory of his Keeper’s familiar voice. _You have a level head and a quick mind. You will pick up on things anyone else would miss – and do it without earning a Shemlen spear in your throat._

Ryn found himself pressing his thumb against the mark in his hand and forced himself to stop. He estimated that he had another mile to pretend it was the coming rain that made it ache.

“If I am not mistaken, Dorian seems very unhappy as of late,” Cassandra observed casually, making unnecessary adjustments to her gauntlets.

Ryn jerked, guiltily, perhaps, pulled from his memories. It took everything in him not to turn in his saddle to look for the mage. Normally he would have been at his side – chatting, joking, flirting enough to make Cassandra flush red and hurry her horse forward – not enough to prevent hearing Dorian’s lascivious talk, but enough to _pretend_ not to hear it. That had always been the way of things, ever since Redcliff. Even during their lover’s spats – even the Great Sock Debacle – Dorian had always –

Ryn shook his head and deliberately shut the thought away.

“If I am not mistaken, you seem unhappy as well,” Cassandra said, more softly.

“And if you are?” Ryn asked.

She frowned, her sharp face hard as granite but her eyes, when she looked at him, soft with concern. “It is unfortunate that I am very rarely mistaken.”

“Varric might disagree with you.”

“Varric is a lying little monster.”

Ryn tried to laugh, but even he didn’t buy it.

“I…appreciate the concern,” he said, and hoped it was a diplomatic enough response. (Judging by the displeased snort that issued from her nostrils, it was likely _too_ diplomatic.)

Ryn had had bed partners before, but never a _lover_. Never someone whose voice could make his heartbeat quicken, whose touch sent shivers, who could sit with him in comfortable silence, simply enjoying the sound of the other’s breathing. Ryn didn’t know what he’d done or failed to do to cause Dorian to draw away.

He hardly even seemed like Dorian anymore.

“You should talk about it,” Cassandra stated. “Not to me,” she added quickly. “I have no wish to hear it.”

“Is that so?”

Her cheeks colored and she glared straight ahead, refusing to look at him. “You cannot go from being as…as disgustingly, irrationally, hopelessly, stupidly – “

“Cassandra.”

“ _Happy_. You two were happy, and now you are not,” her voice hardened, grew colder. “That should not happen.”

“But sometimes it does,” Ryn reminded her.

“You should fix it.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

This time she did fix her glare on him. “Don’t be cute.”

He smiled. A smile was always better than the other things. Responsibility on his shoulders, blood on his hands, an empty bed –

“Things will work themselves out, or they won’t,” Ryn told her, as if his heart didn’t ache every time Dorian took such obvious pains to avoid him. It had never bothered him before – being alone, isolated, different. Going back to it after living otherwise was a…challenge.

Cassandra pressed her lips into a thin, displeased line. “You should talk to someone,” she said. Then, “Not me.”

Ryn shook his head, bemused as she spurred her horse forward, away from him.

Cassandra didn’t realize that he’d tried what she suggested. Well, in a way. It hadn’t been the most honorable course of action, maybe – approaching Cole with the distinct intention of gaining some sort of insight into Dorian’s behavior.

But the boy had scrambled back from him, cowering, almost, eyes huge in his sallow face.

“I’m not allowed to talk to you!” he’d exclaimed.

He’d run away without further explanation. Run, as if Ryn would give chase, demand his secrets. That stung, too.

He squared his shoulders, rode a little taller in the saddle. He smiled to the line of soldiers who passed – men who would see him only as an icon, a figurehead, a symbol, and was that any better, or different, than being only knife ear, savage, danger?

Despite himself, he glanced back over his shoulder. Dorian rode at the end of the column, between Solas and Cole, oddly enough. His shoulders were heavy, his eyes downcast, his cocky confident smile increasingly a thing of the past. Though Solas was speaking, gesticulating emphatically, Dorian did not appear to be enjoying their usual spat.

As if he felt Ryn’s gaze, Dorian lifted his head.

Their eyes met.

The crack of the anchor activating was like thunder filling the air, and for a brief moment, clutching his wrist, Ryn wasn’t entirely certain of his ability to remain in the saddle. He didn’t need the two hurrying scouts to tell him of the nearby rift; he’d been anticipating it for the better part of an hour before allowing his thoughts to distract him.

As soon as he was sure he wouldn’t send himself sprawling head first into the mud, Ryn spurred his horse forward at a gallop.

It was a massive rift, and luck that Ryn had as many companions with him as he did, so the army itself did not have to go traipsing through the fields behind him. Ryn dismounted before he was close enough for the horse to spook, and dropped to a knee.

He had his first shot lined up when the Iron Bull slammed hard into the first wave of demons.

Though it was a large rift, there was no reason it shouldn’t have gone as smoothly as any other, the only exceptional thing being the way Dorian stood a little closer to the rift than necessary, rather than his usual place at Ryn’s side.

“I’m not protecting you, amatus – the light here simply showcases my exceptional talent and good looks better than any other,” he’d protested once with a troublesome grin. “Why – are _you_ protecting _me?_ ”

That, Ryn supposed, no longer appeared to be a concern of the mage’s.

Ryn brushed off the thought impatiently and lined up another shot. The demons were still too thick for him to approach the rift, a fact that he soon realized would be something it would take longer than usual to remedy.

Everything seemed to be going wrong. A swing of Dorian’s staff tripped Sera up and sent her sprawling in the dirt. An errant fireball nearly singed off Varric’s chest hair. Trying to avoid the blade of the staff nearly put one of Ryn’s arrows through Blackwall.

The rhythm, the pace of the battle was completely thrown off, as if Dorian had forgotten how to fight with a party.

And then the storm hit.


	13. Rift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the brevity of the chapter. It's for reasons.

Flash of lightning, crash of thunder, the rain hit them like a brick wall, and what had already begun as an unlucky battle dissolved quickly into chaos.

Ryn had shouldered his bow, opting for his short, sturdy hunting knife and keeping his body low, dodging demons, darting between combatants. He couldn’t do a lot of damage now, but he could offer something no one else could – if only he could reach that rift.

The sky had grown very black very quickly, as if a giant had come to snuff the candle of the sun, and the rain came in heavy, near-solid sheets. Flare of light from spells or lightning made it harder, not easier, to see. Ryn focused instead on the soft glow of the anchor and its persistent pull to lead him in range of the rift, and trusted reflex, instinct, and dumb luck to keep him from harm.

It would have to do.

He ducked and rolled, slashing at the – did demons have heel cords? – slashing at the creatures entangled with Blackwall as he passed, hearing a grunt and a victorious exaltation as the grizzled warden finally made it past the thing’s guard, sword sinking wet and deep.

“Here! To me!” Cassandra called, and in a flash of lightning Ryn saw her step in, raising her shield to intercept a blow that would have crushed Cole’s skull.

A howl of pain as Sera took a blow to the shoulder, followed by a line of such colorful curses that Vivienne paused in her casting.

“ _Language_ , my dear.”

“Oh, blow it out your arse!”

He sidestepped a demon’s swiping claws, and lashed out, fast, striking it deep across its eyes, took another step to dodge retaliation.

Something struck him hard across the back – an errant staff strike – and he stumbled into the demon’s reach and pain lashed, sharp and heavy, across his abdomen. He fell back again, familiar arms catching him, and briefly in a flash of lightning he caught his lover’s concerned, guilty face.

“I didn’t mean - !”

“Get outta the damn way!” the Iron Bull slammed hard against the demon.

Ryn’s path was clear.

The pain was hot and sharp as he pushed away from Dorian, but there wasn’t time to notice it; the demons would close in again soon if he wasn’t quick.

He felt unsteady, legs weak. Ryn threw himself toward the rift, flinging his hand toward the heavens as the world dipped and whirled. He fell hard to his knees – _not close enough! –_ and had to crawl forward the last few feet before he felt the anchor connect.

“Get to the Inquisitor!” Cassandra bellowed, throwing a demon off her shield. Ryn felt claws rake across his back, then –

The great green light flared bright, blinding, radiant, throwing demons back, dissolving the weaker ones where they stood. The rain, when it hit the light, hissed and sizzled and fell away. Ryn held it was long as he could, vision blurring, world swaying, dipping, nauseating, ringing in his ears –

He could see Dorian, standing there, staring at him, hair and mustache plastered so humorously to his head that Ryn had to smile. The expression on his face was difficult to pinpoint – disbelieving, horrified. Ryn realized he must be very hurt. He waited for Dorian to come to him, but the mage seemed rooted to the spot.

Somehow Vivienne reached his side first, sliding to her knees in the mud in her finely embroidered battle robes. She might have asked something. Ryn could see only Dorian.

Then the rift closed, the light of the anchor winked out, and the darkness rolled in, heavy and insistant.

 


	14. Bedside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double post this week because 13 was so short. If you somehow missed 13, please go back one chapter.

Surely they had made a pitiable sight, limping into the Winter Palace sometime after sunset. The proud Inquisition – drenched, dripping, and half frozen, with drooping banners and a heavy spirit of defeat, a pack of well-beaten dogs.

Those soldiers who hadn’t seen for themselves had quickly heard the news – their Inquisitor, Andraste’s holy herald, had been carried from the field in the arms of the Iron Bull, limp and white and seemingly lifeless.

The rumors were rampant, spreading quietly and solemnly, and more quickly than Leliana’s plants among the men could hope to get in front of.

The Inquisitor was dead, some insisted. He’d sacrificed himself in battle with a savage pride demon the size of a mountain.

No, the Inquisitor was alive, but barely, clinging to life on the barest of threads, and out of desperation his evil Vint lover had put a demon in him, and it was even now locked, entrenched in furious battle with the Maker’s holy light within the lad, warring for the Herald’s soul. When he woke, the world would know who had proven victorious.

No, others argued, it was all nothing more than a terrible lie spread by traitors within their ranks who sought to weaken the Inquisition with their vile tales. The Inquisitor was fine, in the best health of his life, old Jory had seen him race that foul mouthed knife ear from the city, laughing in the rain.

“-and those are just the ones they felt safe sharing with me,” Varric said, giving his knee a slap and trying, with questionable success, to laugh. Ryn’s smile was wan. Dorian couldn’t manage even that much.

None of those who seemed so willing to discuss it now had sat where Dorian had, hunched, drenched and shivering from more than the cold, crowded in a commandeered wagon with the others as Solas and Vivienne and three of the Inquisition’s rebel mages with the most powerful healing abilities laid Ryn out and stripped him down and fought, desperately, to save his life.

It had been an odd feeling, seeing him like that. Ryn, with his bright eyes and quiet resolve, the Dalish lad who stayed up too late studying human culture so he could save the world, who had to be talked into wearing smallclothes, who looked at Dorian with more affection than the mage had ever known in his life –

The claw gashes across his back had been ugly, but not life threatening. The gash across his belly, however –

They had managed to close it, but it had been deep, and he had lost an alarming amount of blood.

They very nearly hadn’t been able to save him.

The door slammed open so hard it shook the paintings on the wall. “Tell me you are joking,” Cassandra said without preamble, as she let herself in. Her voice had the remarkable talent of sounding flat, displeased, and infuriated all at once.

Varric whistled low and gave Ryn a look, lifting his brows. “Sounds like you’re in trouble, your Inquisitorialness,” he said, as lightly as he could. He was trying. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

“I’m not wearing shoes.”

It had been two days. Tucked comfortably into place in the Winter Palace, Ryn’s life no longer hung on the precipice and Dorian could almost – almost – breathe again. (And Dorian only _liked_ the lad. Greatly, genuinely, heart-wrenchingly _liked_ him. He could only imagine how the incident would have destroyed the Dorian who _should_ have been there.)

“Explain yourself,” Cassandra demanded.

“We can’t expect anyone would even remotely consider delaying tonight’s ball,” Ryn said. “Particularly not for the sake of a single injured elf. I intend to be there, where I should be.” His voice sounded much stronger, much closer to normal, but Dorian knew the very act of sitting up had left him pale and clammy.

“You look like death,” the warrior scoffed.

“That’s rather personal. Is it my hair?”

“Inquisitor! This is no time to be cheeky!”

Varric sighed and patted Ryn’s knee, hopping down from where he had been sitting at his bedside. “I think I’ll leave this discussion before she starts stabbing books. Anyone needs me, I’ll be snooping around somewhere quiet.”

“Thanks, Varric.”

He gave a halfhearted little salute and made his way around the bed, taking care to avoid brushing too close to Cassandra. He needn’t have worried; her displeasure was fixed entirely on their leader. Ryn lifted his hands defensively, but dropped them quickly, finding even that tiring.

“I will take some medicine for stamina and pain management,” the elf promised soberly. “Vivienne thinks she has something that will help. I’ll be fine.”

“Dorian – you cannot mean to allow him to do this,” she said.

Dorian was still for a moment, quiet, not answering, before he turned away from the window, looking first to Ryn – finding those pale eyes on him, yes, as always, Ryn with his quiet intense gaze – before lifting his eyes to the Seeker. “I pity the man who thinks himself in possession of the power to _let_ our darling Inquisitor do anything,” he said softly.

“It is madness and foolishness.”

“A little madness and foolishness sounds delightful, don’t you think? Hardly expected this time of year. We’ll certainly be the talk of the ball.”

“You are impossible,” she accused. “Both of you. Do you even hear yourselves?”

Ryn shifted, reaching for another pillow to put behind his back, a chuckle not quite concealing a hiss of pain. “You know it keeps things interesting.”

“I should like for things to grow a little less interesting. Thank you.”

“This is our only chance,” Ryn said. “What Dorian and I saw in Redcliff – I can’t allow that to happen. I have to _be_ there, Cassandra. You know it as well as I do. I have to find a way to manage – I have to pull this off. There’s too much riding on our success here. The healers said my life isn’t in danger anymore.”

“But you are weak,” she said. Pled? It was clear she, like everyone, cared for Ryn, considered him a friend. “You will be in pain the entire time.”

“With the wrong dance partners, that would probably be the same even without having my belly ripped open.”

She lifted a hand quickly. “That - ! That is not a matter to laugh over.”

His grin fell away. He nodded. “You’re right, it’s not. Your concern means much to me, Cassandra, but you know this is something I’m going to do. Something I have to do.”

She looked again to Dorian, expression bleak. He couldn’t quite meet her eyes.

“I see my advice is outnumbered here,” she said darkly. “Leliana will be furious at you.”

“That’s a terrifying thought.”

She shook her head, looked away, and Dorian had the strangest feeling she was struggling with her emotions. He hadn’t been the only one hard hit by their near-loss. She had, after all, known Ryn the longest. Finally she cleared her throat.

“All right,” she said. “But there are several hours until you must dress. You _will_ spend them resting, or Maker help me, I will see you come to regret it.”

“Yes, of course.”

“No more visitors. I mean it. I will put the next person who walks through that door in iron.”

Ryn lifted his hands again, and, moving carefully, readjusted his pillows. “I’m laying back down right now – see? I’ll be asleep in moments.”

“No books.”

“Of course not. I’m going to sleep. See my eyes closing?”

She frowned at him, eyes flickering to Dorian. For a moment he thought she would kick him from the room, but she only lifted her hand, jabbing a finger at him. “Do not let him get up. Or read. Or do any other foolishness. He is to sleep.”

“I understand,” Dorian said. “Believe me, I want him well.”

“Yes, well,” she looked between them for a moment, rolled her shoulders, and finally turned away. “I will be just outside,” she said, and it wasn’t clear if that was a threat or not.

They were quiet when she left, just the two of them at last after the near constant barrage of visitors that had hounded their morning. Dorian watched Ryn shift, trying to get more comfortable, before finally approaching, sitting on the bed at his side. Ryn found his hand without opening his eyes.

“My but you have created a fuss, haven’t you?” Dorian asked.

“My plan succeeds,” he murmured. “That’s all I wanted. _More_ attention. _Creators_.”

Dorian chuckled softly, despite himself, reaching forward to brush hair from the Inquisitor’s face. “You will want to wash this before the party, naturally.”

“No, I was thinking of leaving it dirty and slathering my nude body with nug grease before entering the ball.”

“That would certainly set tongues wagging.”

“You remember I’m supposed to be sleeping?”

“Yes, of course.”

Dorian fell into silence, watching him, eyes tracing his features, noting the crease of pain between his brows, the pale pallor to his skin, the controlled way he was breathing, as if it took effort.

Dorian’s shoulder had been throbbing since the rift, aching sharp and constant, and yet initially, when he had thought the Inquisitor would perish, he hadn’t even noticed. Now it hardly seemed important. They hadn’t spoken of the distance between them, the lies, the tension. Dorian had not left Ryn’s side, and Ryn had not once questioned his presence there, holding his hand, sleeping beside him. His near-death had made it more apparent than ever to Dorian how little he wanted to lose the lad.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Ryn said, suddenly, as if reading his thoughts. Dorian had thought him asleep.

“Where else would I be?” Dorian asked weakly, ignoring the familiar stab of guilt.

“Mmn,” Ryn said. “I missed you.”

Dorian shifted to lay beside him, gathering him carefully in his arms. Ryn didn’t question, didn’t protest, going to him willingly, and with a contented sigh, and was asleep soon after.

 


	15. Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, another early chapter.
> 
> Don't mind me; I'm just going to hide now.

“There was an ancient dowager looking for you. Said she had twelve daughters. I told her you’d left already.”

Ryn couldn’t help a smile at the sound of his lover’s voice, even with the exhaustion that made the limbs he leaned against the balcony railing feel so very heavy, even with the pain building in his torso and the steady rise of pressure behind his eyes. Without lifting his hanging head, he closed his eyes, and indulged in that private smile, in the luxury of Dorian’s voice washing over him after the long span where the mage had so mysteriously avoided him.

“You can thank me later. Or now,” Dorian leaned against the railing beside him, close, so Ryn felt the warmth of his body, the press of his thigh. Ryn glanced up at last to find the other man looking at him. “But you look lost in thought,” he said. “Something on your mind?”

Ryn watched him for a long moment, tracing his face in the moonlight with his eyes. “I’m just worn out,” he admitted at last, expecting no shortage of _I told you so’s_ for the confession. “Tonight has been…very long.”

Dorian’s eyes darted over him, checking on him, no doubt, attempting to measure whether or not _worn out_ meant Ryn was in any danger. Ryn could see the thought forming, his lips preparing to scold, before Dorian merely shook his head, gave a chuckle. “You won,” he pointed out. “You saved the day. Literally – the day is saved. You should be celebrating; enjoy yourself while you can.”

Ryn attempted to smile, shaking his own head, grateful for the lack of a lecture, the presence of the man at his side, the fact the night was so close to being over – and yes, for their victory. Knowing that he had, at least for now, successfully halted the nightmare he had witnessed in Redcliff… _Creators,_ but he was tired.

Dorian never took his eyes from him. “What you need is a distraction,” the mage said. “I have just the thing.”

He drew back, offering a courtly bow, holding out his hand in invitation. When Ryn merely watched him, Dorian huffed softly, made a show of rolling his eyes.

“Let’s dance,” Dorian said, and earned a snort of amusement. When Ryn, eager to stop his companions’ worried glances and prove he was capable of the night’s work had suggested such a thing earlier in the evening, Dorian had turned him down. Now, aching and exhausted as Ryn was – _now_ Dorian was ready?

Still, he could hardly say no, tired or no – not when he had missed the man so dearly during their…conflict? Spat?

“I thought you would never ask,” Ryn said at last, his humor at the situation clear. He received a cheeky grin in return as Dorian pulled him into his arms.

“Thank goodness _one_ of us has a little initiative.”

“Very cute, Dorian,” Ryn sighed. He leaned his forehead against the man’s shoulder, feeling his arms steady, supporting around him. They could hear the music easily enough, out on the balcony, but it was a distant thing.

“I saw Cassandra on my way out,” Dorian said. “Positively fuming. I take it you didn’t clear scaling the garden trellis, closing multiple rifts, and personally battling a duchess as your plans for the night?”

“Are those sorts of activities not typically included in human parties? Cultural misunderstanding, that.”

“Clearly,” Dorian didn’t sound pleased himself, but his hand rubbed Ryn’s back in a slow circle and his lips pressed softly to his head. “Is this the part where I admit how much you’ve terrified me?”

“I’m sorry,” Ryn gave a sigh. “No more silly risks. Not until the next time a silly risk is necessary, anyway.”

“That isn’t the entirety of what I meant.”

“Everything worked out,” Ryn said. Though he didn’t add _this time_ it seemed to hang in the air, unintentionally implied, between them. He lifted his head when Dorian didn’t answer. “Or is this about my saying I loved you? It doesn’t have to be a bad thing, Dorian.”

“Bad, he says,” the mage mumbled, and dipped his head, his lips brushing Ryn’s.

It was soft, exploratory, the kiss, lacking Dorian’s usual flippancy, his playfulness. Ryn drew back a fraction, brows drawing together as his eyes moved over the mage’s face. “You really are frightened,” he realized with concern.

“You haven’t the slightest idea,” he murmured, leaning down again, catching Ryn’s mouth. The elf pushed up on his toes to meet him, feeling his arms slide tight around his waist, lifting his own arms to circle Dorian’s shoulders.

Dorian pushed back, suddenly, with a hiss of pain, and Ryn stumbled back several steps, balance thrown off by being suddenly and confusingly _pushed away._ Dorian’s hand was on his shoulder, back slightly hunched, expression one of great pain. He tried to straighten it, to hide it, to offer a blithe smile.

But Ryn had already seen.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“Ryn – “

“If you were injured you should have said something, Dorian!”

“It isn’t – “

Ryn strode forward, reaching for him – and yelped as with a loud, _aching_ crack the anchor ignited, green fire burning up his arm, flaring in Dorian’s eyes as their gazes met, briefly, and then Dorian was on his knees, gripping his shoulder, and he was _screaming_.

Ryn looked desperately to the balcony doors, then back to Dorian. The anchor always hurt when it reacted to something, but it felt cold now, icy, and was trying to pull him toward the man he loved. He gripped his arm, struggling to move away, understanding only that he needed to move away, that it was _hurting_ Dorian, that he needed help –

“Enough.”

Solas came strolling through the doors. Ryn caught the stares of the party-goers inside before with a wave of his hand the other elf sent the doors swinging closed. Ryn heard them lock, and another motion of his hand and the anchor winked out, dull, flickering sleepily, as if it had never ignited at all.

The lack of screams was suddenly deafening.

Dorian was on his knees, curled over himself, gripping his shoulder, body shaking, panting. Ryn nearly took a step toward him, but didn’t trust what his mark might do if he –

“Solas?”

“You hid it from me,” Solas said, his eyes on Dorian. “The situation is far worse than you led me to believe, _and you thought you could hide it?_ ”

“Solas.” Ryn’s voice grew sharper. The other elf’s head snapped up. He stared at Ryn as if he hadn’t realized he was there.

Their stare was broken as a pair of palace guards struggled to open the locked balcony doors, pulling hard on them, shouting. Ryn watched through the windows as Cullen strode forward, pulled one away, arguing with him, gesturing, Inquisition soldiers behind him, ready to step in.

Solas pressed his lips into a thin line. “We should take this to your quarters. Inquisitor,” he said.

“What happened to him?” Ryn demanded.

His frown deepened. They both watched as Dorian struggled, but succeeded in finding his feet.

“A bit of privacy,” Solas said, “And we will discuss the matter in full.”

\--

“Take off your jacket and shirt,” Solas said without preamble, striding into the chambers the Inquisitor had been given as if he owned them. He was loosening the buttons on his own uniform jacket, and as he reached the middle of the sitting room he turned, looking back as if surprised his orders had not yet been followed.

Dorian had lifted his hands, but he hesitated. “Very forward of you. And in front of my lover, no less.” Ryn had followed them, but Cassandra and Cullen had too, insisting that they be in on the discussion. When he looked at Cullen and Cassandra, Dorian couldn’t help but wonder if they expected they would be putting down an abomination this evening.

He couldn’t bear to look at Ryn at all.

“No more nonsense,” Solas snarled, drawing himself up. He seemed powerful, dangerous, and even as he gestured once, sharply, sending all the lamps flaring to brightness, his eyes seemed to possess an unnatural glow. Dorian had never once in his life felt afraid of the elf, but this was something entirely unexpected. “No more, secrets, no more hiding. You have put us all at risk with this. You will remove your jacket and your shirt, willingly or otherwise.”

“I thought we were to discuss this matter privately,” Dorian said.

“No,” Ryn’s voice was firm. He was the Inquisitor entirely now, little trace of the humorous, humble little Dalish Dorian had found himself falling for. “You are going to discuss this now. Here. With me.”

He heard more than one gasp around the room when he stripped to the waist, though Solas was not one of them, his expression growing only more solemn, and angry, and concerned.

Dorian didn’t need to look at himself to know it wasn’t his godlike body that had elicited such a response.

The bruise that had appeared after his first nightmare in this reality, that dark mark that had started as little more than a thumb print, had never gone away. It had remained, and it had grown. Dark, thick tendrils curled down his arm and across his chest, following the path of his veins, straining toward his heart. Black and green, vicious, frightening, Dorian had begun avoiding mirrors days ago.

Solas was the first to speak, hissing his breath out slowly. “I had expected something like this would happen,” he said. “But when you failed to mention anything, I assumed we had more time.”

“You _expected_?” Dorian repeated.

“Solas, explain yourself,” Ryn ordered.

Solas did not look at the Inquisitor, his attention entirely on Dorian. “I told you – your presence here puts strain on the Veil. It is trying to right itself.” He pointed to Dorian’s chest. “If you had told me of this, I may have been able to take measures. Now, however – the damage is too great.”

“What are you saying?” Dorian asked.

“The Veil is attempting to right this wrong. If you don’t go back, it will tear you apart. And likely the rest of this reality with it.”

“What madness is this?” Cassandra scoffed, even as Cullen looked between the two of them, tense, anticipating – what? For Dorian to attack? He would have laughed, if he wasn’t afraid he would never stop.

“Solas,” Ryn said.

Dorian turned away. He felt hot, dizzy, sick. That was it, then. This world, this happiness – “I never had a real chance then, did I? Tell them, then. Tell them everything. I…” he couldn’t look at Ryn, couldn’t meet those pale eyes. _Maker_ , he loved him. He really loved him. “I need some air.”


	16. Amatus

They discussed the problem for hours.

Dorian was hardly a stranger to such things. Being relegated to the position of ‘ _the problem_ ’ had once been his most prized goal. He could hardly count the times a group of people had felt the need to gather behind closed doors and discuss his fate without him, and it hardly mattered that he had voluntarily vacated the room – he knew from experience the debate would go on even were he present, and it was easier, somewhat, not to play audience as others discussed one’s fate.

He paced the confines of Ryn’s bedchamber and resisted whatever curious urge my bid him to intrude. He hadn’t the slightest clue whether or not he had been assigned rooms of his own upon their arrival. With Ryn injured and clinging to life, Dorian hadn’t so much as considered leaving his side. Now –

Well, now he felt entirely the stranger he rightfully should.

He gave a guilty jolt when the doors opened at last. Ryn, his eyes red and skin pale, uniform jacket open. He looked exhausted, more than anything else. He didn’t speak – merely opened the doors and left them like that, then retreated back into the sitting room.

It was an invitation, of sorts.

Dorian entered the sitting room cautiously, and could not decide if finding Ryn in there alone was a good sign or a bad one. Seated on one of the couches, the elf’s pale eyes tracked his every move.

“I suppose I should find it a relief it’s all out now,” Dorian ventured cautiously. He stopped in the middle of the room, legs unwilling to propel him closer. He felt very much like any other supplicant brought before the Inquisitor’s throne for judgement.

Would there be a trial, he wondered? Would they take him back to Skyhold in chains, ship him back where he belonged only after making him very, very sorry?

That sounded more Rellana’s style.

“You truly believe he is dead?” it was several moments before Ryn spoke, and when he did he could scarcely finish the sentence without a rasp.

Guilt stabbed at Dorian like a knife to the chest. “I’ve no proof, no,” he allowed. “But she had ordered my execution shortly before the – the accident. I see no reason she wouldn’t follow through with it.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Ryn said. “Rellana – she has a selfish streak and an abundance of pride. She likes praise, attention – but she’s never been blood thirsty. The Keeper would never have considered a monster.”

“Perhaps becoming Inquisitor changed her for the worse.”

Ryn shook his head, closing his eyes tight. A tear slipped down his cheek.

Dorian found himself across the room in mere heartbeats, kneeling at the Inquisitor’s feet.

“Don’t send me back,” he pled, reaching for Ryn’s hands. The elf pulled them both away, shaking his head.

“Don’t – Dorian - !”

“He may be gone, but I’m _here_. We’re the same man, blast it. Ryn – _Amatus_ – “

“ _Don’t!_ ” he interrupted in clear distress. His hand trembled as he pressed it to his mouth, turned his face away.

Dorian bowed his head, pressing his brow to the lad’s knee. He could feel the silent sobs that wracked that small body.

“I have nothing there,” Dorian said, voice nearly a whisper. “No friends, no family – no you.”

“Please – !”

“He was happy here – had to have been – and the difference is you. You are responsible for every good turn his life made that mine did not.”

“Dorian, you have to stop. You have to go back.”

“Solas could be wrong – he only _thinks_ he knows everything,” Dorian spoke quickly over his protests. “Alexius and I created the amulet – we can fix this. We can stabilize my presence here. _He_ is lost to you, but _I_ can stay. You can love me, same as him. Why not? Why - ? Love _me_.”

Ryn moved then, spilling to the floor with Dorian, his arms snaking around him and his drip so tight. Dorian realized his own eyes were wet.

“Please,” he repeated. “Let me stay.”

“You know I can’t.” Ryn’s arms tightened around him. He kissed Dorian’s cheek, his forehead, his hair. “I can’t risk. I can’t – even if he’s dead and gone, I can’t let the same happen to you.”

“No,” he said. “We can find a way to fix it. He won’t – there’s nothing to return to you, but _I’m here._ ”

“Dorian,” there was too much emotion in the way Ryn said his name, and it made Dorian _ache_. “I _do_ love you, Dorian. How could I fail to? How could you think I might not?”

“Ryn – “

“But I can’t watch you die. The – the man of this world might be gone, but I still have the chance to save _you_. I can’t be selfish. I can’t waste that.” Dorian’s cheeks were wet as Ryn kissed them. When he found his lips, they both tasted of salt.

“Please,” Dorian whispered.

“Leliana will send a raven to Alexius in the morning,” Ryn said, drawing away. His hands fell heavily from Dorian’s face. “With any luck he’ll reach Skyhold around the same time we do.”

“Luck,” Dorian repeated softly.

Ryn would not meet his eyes. He rose – a single fluid motion of that lithe lovely body – and walked to the door.

“For what it’s worth,” Ryn said, “I understand why you didn’t tell me.”

He didn’t wait for a response before he quietly let himself out.


	17. Goodbye

Dorian wasn’t sure how long Ryn had been there before he looked up to find the elf standing in the doorway watching him.

When their eyes met, Ryn took a deep, somewhat less-than-steady breath. “Are you ready?”

“Surely you know better than that, _Amatus_.”

He flinched at the name, and Dorian knew it wasn’t quite fair play to use it. He had considered – but to his credit not _resorted to_ – sabotaging the work Alexius was doing attuning the amulet to take Dorian back where he belonged. It was ironic that his only chance to see his mentor alive and well again should come with the heartbreaking reality of what he would be returning to. He hadn’t trusted himself to interact with the man.

“Tell me how it happened,” Dorian said.

“I don’t think that would help.”

“Something to carry home with me,” Dorian said. “A story of the life I could have had.”

“Please don’t do that,” Ryn’s voice was nearly a whisper. He couldn’t look at him.

They had been back at Skyhold a week. What should have been a triumphant return was blackened by the Inquisitor’s mood. The weight of his responsibilities hung, heavy and clear, from his shoulders, and Dorian found himself not quite a good enough man to pretend to accept the decision and ease his burden as he should. Ryn claimed he couldn’t bear the thought of Dorian dying in both worlds, but he wondered if his decision might have had just as much to do with the threat Dorian himself posed – the possibility of reality tearing itself apart around him as it tried to set matters right.

Ryn moved into the room, and the fluid, eye catching beauty of his motions struck Dorian as another of fate’s cruelties. He could feel his warm solidity as he came to stand beside him at the window.

“You…fascinated me,” Ryn said at last. “From the first moment.”

“You’re going to tell me after all, then? Very well. I _am_ rather irresistible. Please, go on.”

He was quiet for a moment before Ryn continued. “You have to understand how – how terrifying those days were for me, how lost and unsure I felt with all these humans calling me Herald, asking me to lead them, looking at me like – like they do.”

“I find it hard to believe you handled it with anything other than your typical grace.”

Ryn ignored the compliment, just as he ignored the hand that brushed his arm.

“You were so confident, so willing to help,” Ryn said. “And you looked at me neither as a holy savior nor a barefoot savage. Our experiences in Redcliff notwithstanding, being in your company, I found, was…strengthening. I began to seek you out more and more.”

“I see,” Dorian said, and he could. He could too well imagine the effect it would have to have this beautiful, charming lad single him out in such a manner.

Ryn swallowed, eyes on the window, arms crossed against his narrow chest. “The first time we made love,” he said, “Neither one of us could stop smiling. ‘ _Now Amatus_ ,’ you scolded me, ‘ _this is serious business!’_ But I was…we were both…just so happy.”

“That sounds – “

“Dorian,” Ryn looked at him at last, and he was surprised to see that the elf’s eyes bore determination. “You can’t change my mind.”

“What are you - ?”

“Don’t,” he said firmly. The Inquisitor’s voice. “You have to go back. You know that.”

“If you would only examine some of the other options - !”

“What other options, Dorian? Watch you waste away – _watch_ you die while we scramble in futility to find a cure for something no one has experienced before? Let a hole be ripped in reality because I was too selfish to do the right thing?”

“ _Amatus_ – “

“Stop. Stop being so… _Dorian_. Don’t you understand how difficult this is?”

“You don’t think it’s difficult for me? Going back to that place? Losing you?” he reached for his hands. Ryn jerked them away.

“You don’t even know me, Dorian.”

“I know enough.”

They fell silent, staring at one another, and Dorian could see, despite the lad’s clear resolve, the fear, the hurt, the pain in those eyes of his.

“Let’s stop this,” Dorian said. “The last thing we need is some grandiose pissing contest over who is more tormented over this, don’t you agree?”

Ryn took a deep breath, drawing away.

“I have everyone gathering in the courtyard,” he said. “If you aren’t down in an hour, I will send someone to fetch you.”

“Is that really how this ends? Dragged away by your guards?”

“I hope not, Dorian. Sincerely.”

“Wouldn’t a kiss be more appropriate?”

“I – can’t,” Ryn’s voice was short as he let himself out.

\--

It was a cruel irony, Ryn decided, that the one person who would have been able to comfort him in this situation was the one who was too painful to be around.

“I want everyone clear of this perimeter,” Ryn instructed, digging a line in the dirt of the courtyard with the toe of his boot. They had their uses every once in a while, boots. “I don’t want anyone caught in this – I mean it.”

A crowd had gathered. Few knew the truth of what they were doing, but the chance to stare at the Inquisitor was rarely missed. An audience of strangers to watch him send his love away. An audience of strangers to witness his grief when whatever remained of his Dorian returned in this one’s place.

A hand caught his arm. “Inquisitor,” Cullen said, voice pitched low, urgent. “Let me beg you again – retreat to your rooms. You don’t need to be here for this; Alexius thinks your anchor will still react as needed so long as you are in Skyhold. I will respectfully see to the remains myself.”

It was so tempting to run away, hide, not have to watch –

He wanted –

Well, it had been a long time he what he wanted had mattered. And now his last solace, his only peace in the madness that had followed the Conclave – now it was lost as well.

“I have to be here,” he said, and tried not to think of Dorian’s near-reverent touch, his soft smiles when they were alone, the expression in his eyes when he caught his gaze. He tried not to think of what he meant to him, and how empty his life would be without him.

The man in question came down the stairs into the courtyard, and did not look his way. Ryn could not make himself see him as an imposter, as to blame for this loss. They were not _quite_ the same, the two Dorians, but he couldn’t help but feel as if he were losing him twice.

He clenched his hand, and felt the small slip of paper he carried press against the mark in his palm. One last hope, one small, meager consolation. It was all he had left to cling to.

\--

Dorian felt like a man walking to his execution.

The courtyard was ringed by spectators, and Ryn, when he chanced a brief glance his way, was somber and expressionless.

Solas and Alexius waited within the cleared ring of space, and their body language made it clear each disliked the other’s company. Alexius was under guard, and held the amulet dangling from one hand. Solas looked as if he hoped the magister would give him an excuse.

“I regret we’re seeing one another again under such circumstances,” Dorian told his mentor as he approached. To his credit, he kept his voice light.

“As do I,” Alexius answered. “We did not part on the best of terms. They tell me I’m deceased where you come from. It’s a pity we have not had time to chat.”

“Is everything ready?” Ryn’s voice broke through the conversation as he approached. Hard – determined – there was no hope there. It was surprising how powerfully Dorian found himself yearning to see him soft and smiling and teasing one last time.

“I have marked the place where you are to stand, Inquisitor,” Solas said. “We are as prepared as can be. On your word.”

He nodded. “Good,” he said. “Dorian?”

Ryn held out his hand, and Dorian felt the most absurd urge to laugh when he took it – until the elf slipped a piece of paper into his palm.

“What - ?”

Ryn pushed up on his toes, wrapping his arms around Dorian, the hug tight, fierce.

“Directions to find my clan at this time of year,” Ryn told him softly, breath against his ear. “We’re peaceful, and do not generally have trouble with humans. You should be…” For the first time, Dorian heard his voice hitch with the heartbreak he could not express before so many onlookers. “Find me, Dorian. Promise you will try.”

“You truly think - ?”

“I refuse to believe a world exists where I wouldn’t love you,” he said, pressing his lips to Dorian’s jaw, arms going tighter. “It has to work somewhere, doesn’t it? We could be happy. Promise you’ll find me.”

“I promise,” he said, holding him, clutching the paper. He didn’t want to let him go.

“Inquisitor,” Solas said gently.

It seemed as if Ryn had to physically push himself away, turning quickly to take his place, hands up against his face, attempting to hide his tears from the onlookers. He squared his shoulders, putting on his Inquisitor’s face as Solas and Alexius moved to their marks. His eyes were red when they met Dorian’s. Loving, longing – everything the mage had ever wanted. He held his gaze as he stepped back to his own place, lifting the scrap of paper to his lips.

The amulet glowed green as Alexius held it aloft, and it hummed as Solas began to channel his spell.

 _I love you_ , Ryn’s lips formed the words, hand lifting, mark flashing green.

Dorian held onto the sight of him for as long as he could as the green light surrounded him, blinded him, pushing him back to that place where things were so different, so solitary, so terribly lonesome.

He gripped the paper and held onto that vision of Ryn.

For the first time, he had hope.

 


	18. Epilogue

Ryn held Dorian’s gaze for as long as he could.

He refused to look away, even as the light rose bright, painfully bright, searing his vision. The wind picked up, blowing back his hair, his cloak – then it grew stronger.

He threw up an arm, squinting, fighting to keep sight of Dorian – now a shadow, lost in green light and the dust. He struggled to keep his feet, skidding back in the dirt. The anchor cracked, loud, violent, like thunder. The wind howled and shrieked, whipping, tearing at them. Alexius lost footing and fell.

Ryn’s eyes closed – a fraction of a moment, only, involuntary, self-preserving – and when they opened, he might have cried out, might have screamed for him, but the howling winds swallowed his anguish, his regrets, and dried his tears.

He had made his decision, and it was too late to change his mind.

Still Ryn tried to move forward, blinded by the dust and green light, the wind punishing, unrelenting. He threw himself forward, straining, struggling, reaching, grasping for –

For what? For Dorian? And then what? Watch him die? Watch reality shred itself, like the sky, watch even more people suffer and perish?

Ryn hit his knees, hard, and he was no longer certain if it was the wind or himself who wailed the louder. He pressed his forehead to the ground, arm outstretched, face wet with tears.

There was no way of telling how long it lasted. The wind howled and raged around him, cutting at him, the world lost to the green and the wind and the empty knowledge that there was no going back.

He felt like a shell by the time the raging storm around him began to settle. Cleaned out, empties of emotions, eyes raw, chest aching. He’d hoped to be stronger than this.

He could hear excited chattering as the air began to clear. The onlookers. His audience. _Oh_.

Ryn knew it was time to pick himself up, dust himself off, square his shoulders. He was the Inquisitor. He did not belong to himself anymore.

The air was still clearing – they wouldn’t have a clear view of him yet. He needed to get up. They couldn’t see him like this, broken, sobbing, lost. He had to get up. Had to face what came next.

Ryn didn’t move. He felt locked where he was, on his knees, forehead in the dirt, arm uselessly extended toward – toward nothing. There was nothing left.

The murmuring of the crowd increased. They could see a little more. Soon it would be too late.

“Inquisitor…” Solas’s voice, behind him. Questioning. Odd. He knew he had to move.

Solas must have come around in front of him. Ryn felt him tentatively touch his outstretched hand. Then, gently, take it in his own. Uncharacteristic. _What - ?_

Ryn looked up.

It wasn’t Solas.

He was thinner than Ryn remembered, almost gaunt, deep shadows under his eyes, a bruise on his cheek, and he hadn’t had a good shave in at least a week. He looked beautiful. When their eyes met, his cracked lips formed a smile. Ryn couldn’t breathe.

“ _Dorian_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone who decided to read this ridiculous idea, particularly to those who took the time to leave comments and kudos. I appreciate you all so very much!

**Author's Note:**

> http://kaerwrites.tumblr.com/


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